Walking ahead of me you open the white picket gate, the paint peeling from the weather worn wood, and gesture that I enter the garden.

Along the walls that enclose the gallery of natural perfumes holds roses.
Thousands of them, in vibrance unimaginable. 
How do I explain to you the affliction that I carry in which these roses fall from my mouth after they have grown within me

Their buds fill my stomach, a soft tickle as they grow 
And as they turn and tumble in their acid bath they wither and eventually their thorns will claw their way up, gasping for air as I gasp for freedom

Scars are left along my throat and blood trickles down, feeding the seeds that were planted years ago. 
When they fill up my mouth I am unable to speak and I bite into the withered petals my body has produced

By some degree of magic 
Some degree of optimism, 
Of hope, of art, of love 
I chew and I speak words of kindness and as they spin across my tongue they are revived 
I produce a flower in full bloom and it falls into your hand

This is my affliction 
From my heart comes flowers that have died and are reborn through my imagination

Your response to this secret I have been hiding is a question 
How can I rid myself of this poison? 
How can I stop the development of these flowers in the first place, so that I don’t have to taste the bitterness 
So that I don’t have to work tirelessly to produce something beautiful from a place of such despair

My response to your question will not spin around my tongue or soak in harshness but will come directly from my heart, bandaging the wounds across the path that the barbs too take. 
Before you came the roses came up and came out dead.

Weak, withered, and brown. 
And so I have reason to believe that if you take my hand and continue to lead me into this garden, soon the seeds that were planted years ago

Will bloom directly through my heart and I will not
taste the bitterness in my mouth, but will exude the
perfume of the dozens in my heart 
Naturally