My garden was always
More lethal than pretty.
Thorns, not roses
Berries too deadly to eat.
Surrounding me.
Surrounding my house,
And heart.
Letting in none.
My own blockade.

Then you came.
You plowed through
The tall thorns, throwing
kisses and sweet words.
You planted beds of tulips
Where thorns had once been.
The berries?
They've rotted,
The sweet lullabies and promises
Too much to handle.
In their place grows wildflowers,
A meadow, calling my name.

My garden was then,
More pretty than lethal.
Where thorns had thrived,
Blooms took over.
Where stone once sat,
Trees had grown.
A garden.
Filled, yet empty.
No longer my own
Blockade.

But weeds
Silently take over the flowers.
Lies drown the wildflower meadow,
which once grew freely in my heart.
A blockade begins, thorns thriving once again.
And then you leave.

My garden was always
More lethal than pretty.
Thorns, not roses
Berries too deadly to eat.
Surrounding me.
Surrounding my house,
And heart.
Letting in only you.

Now my blockade
Of thorns without roses,
Waits.
Waits to be
More pretty than lethal.
••• ••• ••• •••
-T.C., Broken Blooms