if a tainted rose is worth more pennies than a thought,
then my whole garden has a stage presence of 72 ticket stubs,
and sixteen men in beards and ball caps at a footy game.

the thick and habitual tick tick ticking of a grandfather clock
striking each end goal and beer swish of a textbook page
and skin on skin on skin on sheet on leave on lavender cream.

i have left my hose, ***, and gardening paraphernalia in the garage
and i don’t dare to take them because the last time i saw a cordelia i saw you
i don’t dare to tell mother about this grind and bind i seem to be in.

i have much rather my time in the chair, grandfather’s chair, next to the stand clock and angel ornament aunty edna gave us so long ago
did i tell you my cross stitch is past mere perfection? i most certainly have not,
and for that i must say i miss you.

if a rose is the recountment of beauty encased, and the sweet sweet essence of praise has you floundering under mere pressures of two tonne water vessels then fine, i see you as you are
you are wanted downtown, but shhh, i was not supposed to know because mother found out about me and i seem to have lost everything and please, i need that repetition and routine and please, i need renfrew’s shoe cream.

father’s run out again, i am not allowed out again, i miss you again, i am not allowed to see you again, meet me at the pasture after dark again?
mother washed my garments yesterday, and found that note, from when we little.
that’s how she found out, she found out i was dirtier than the garden and i think she thought if i stopped mucking around outside maybe i’d stop mucking around inside.

if i emptied my purse, i would find you.
also you owe me three dollars, i need new stockings.
i lie in bed these days, and i do not regret taking the room at the back of the house because our curbside appeal is diminishing, i can feel it.

my bones are aching. my mind is aching.

i resemble the plumage of a bird; furry, i have not shaven; *****, i have not bathed; but beautiful, mother says. she is not that good at lying. i find it odd you’ve got a way of writing with UK english, maybe it’s in the oxfords?

the statue called me last night, i thought i should tell you. you always had a thing for her. i felt like i was breaking the bond we precariously built between your mind to mine; i hope you will forgive me.

i have grown fond of apple cider but stick applesauce in my ribs. i tried to go through the awning to the pine, but the ivy presented a league and i couldn’t battle my feet to entangle their estranged meaning to let me free.

mother gave me more bottles; i am not a baby, she treats me like a baby, i am not her infant. i hear her cracking them to a powder and that is why i do not eat anything these days, i swear. they didn’t do their jobs and mother is none the wiser so i slip them to the dirt outside. i promised them i would help them grow and despite me not leaving the room, i hope my love reaches the ends of anyone i have ever met.

i lost my studies long ago, i lost everything else before that.

my body is aching, but more, my mind is anesthetized.