I have stretched these muscles thin
trying to find salvation,
crawling through the earth
I have sought out redemption in the dirt,
sat steady in the soot under the horizon
hoping to find grace,
hoping to find you.

I am trying to grow a garden,
burying the pieces you left me in and
hoping to take to the soil
and grow.
Grow from the porcelain-cracked picturesque
prison you have kept this body in.
Grow
from the nights spent above ground,
soaking in sunlight like the flower I should have
been.

I have always been more comfortable with the
worms,
and no promises of oxygen can rip me from the feeling
of mud flooding my lungs.

One night I will see through the cracks in the
rocks,
and the moonlight will beckon me from this
burial.
But until the night claims me,
before the starlight seeks me out,
I will sit with the garden I have grown
from the tips of my fingers
and
rot.