Put the roses in the fire, jack,
my chest is broken.
I am much too tired,
and the sun wont rise
and the moon wont set.
Don’t come here.
Don’t pluck me.
Don’t come anymore.

When I was a little girl,
I never wanted
a tattoo.
I’ve always wanted
to marry a gardener
in hopes that he
would plant seeds in my chest
to make my shaky bones look pretty.
and so i did,
and so he did.
But I grew too tired,
and he grew too old
so one night the garden on my chest died
and the sun no longer rose and the moon no longer set.

-Arizona