I tended a garden once,
behind walls too low,
in a pasture too wide.

The vines reached for strangers
with reckless kindness,
begging to be named beautiful.

You came with smoke clinging to your sleeves,
promises falling from your mouth,
and I, fool that I was,
welcomed you.

With greedy hands, you plucked petals,
stepped on seeds meant for tomorrow,
your breath embers against my harvest.

The skies darkened.
The rivers boiled.
The orchard withered from root to leaf.

And there I stood,
ash stuck to my skin,
silence heavier than stone.

I stayed to bury what you left behind:
The wilted vines,
the broken promises,
the ruined songs.

From the shattered soil,
I built a citadel from broken things.
It stands, heavy and hollow,
Strong enough for silence to live inside.

I am no longer waiting
for careless hands to stumble upon me.
I do not open gates for ghosts.
I hope their hands break before they knock.