There's a garden at the back of my throat,
And it blooms whenever I lie.
And I lie awake every summer,
Waiting for the flowers to die.
There are pieces of me sprawled on the floor,
The twisted vines etching my shadow.
I am one, and none, and all over,
Passing through time like a window.
Weeding takes its toll on my flesh,
I can feel it settle under my skin.
But I get melancholic without the pain,
It's itching and curling within.
There's an eclipse upon the roots,
A purge of the dirt on my soul.
The sunshine outlived by the drama,
The grime, the filth, the lack of control.
Delusions live deep, I know this is true,
But I am the gardener of this world that I grew,
It is wild and demanding and overgrown,
And I creep around a seed that has not yet been sown.
Jan 25
Jan 25, 2026 at 1:35 PM UTC
There's a garden at the back of my throat,
And it blooms whenever I lie.
And I lie awake every summer,
Waiting for the flowers to die.
There are pieces of me sprawled on the floor,
The twisted vines etching my shadow.
I am one, and none, and all over,
Passing through time like a window.
Weeding takes its toll on my flesh,
I can feel it settle under my skin.
But I get melancholic without the pain,
It's itching and curling within.
There's an eclipse upon the roots,
A purge of the dirt on my soul.
The sunshine outlived by the drama,
The grime, the filth, the lack of control.
Delusions live deep, I know this is true,
But I am the gardener of this world that I grew,
It is wild and demanding and overgrown,
And I creep around a seed that has not yet been sown.