Sometimes they're many
Sometimes they're few
Unpractically pretty
But they will do

Flowers in my garden
The only things certain
The only faces I know
Who'd remain true as they grow

They may blossom like my growing fear
The may wither like my sanity
They are stifled by the thorns
Like the skin I'm in, well-worn
They are suppressed by the weeds
Like the guilt in me

Flowers in my garden
I am quite certain
We're the same
But I'm embodied in flesh

Flowers in my garden
I beg your pardon?
What do you mean that you don't exist?

If you leave, what'll happen to me?