The past is the dirt hidden behind the *** walls like it’s not even there.
Roots have been dug dry by clumsy paws before, and a then the grimy, smiling face spoke true and clear,
“You'll only feel comfortable being naked in front of the blind without glasses.”
So please play off the naive smudges resting under my lower eyelashes.

I Lowered my eyelashes.

It’s when it’s seen in the right light angled 30 degrees above the left cheekbone.
It’s when it blisters outside and a mirage sits heavy on the empty road.
It’s when being is to be seen as a composting collection of freckles and scars,
But nothing kills weeds like seeing new flowers and thinking they’re bazaar.

They are Bazaar.

I’ve been used to skinning my knees with smiles to shake off the trauma.
It’s just a hurt, I know that it hurt, so why even bother!
Take it, prune it, and display it in a vase on the windowsill,
But I’ve tried, I’ve failed, and I won’t try again to make roses less hostile.

I Made Roses less hostile.

A dog is a dog and a cat is a cat because a plant is a plant and the sky is the sky.
The way I’ve been told is to radically accept it all to get by,
But it’s when you reach your fingers to the sun through your squint and the heat,
And realizing you’ll only feel as warm as the dirt that’s been curled under your feet.

Growing over your Feet.