My body is a garden, but that does not mean I'm flourishing.
A tight cluster of pale white peonies
hold together something beautiful
but what a damn shame it’s so fragile
Because there’s a hell lot more.
Those peonies are only a layer
to the millions of roses underneath,
and above a field of scattered poppy seeds
a dash of meadow rue shows how I fell down
and maybe just maybe seeping through
a gorgeous burgundy zantedeschia
will sprout from my wrist if I happen to fall apart.
Purple velvet petunias are blooming
under my eyes and my lips are full and
cracked as a fringed tulip. My eyes,
a deep blue barlow as if it meant anything.
Of course know that I have described
myself as a pretty little bouquet
Don’t I feel beautiful now?
Or is it only masking the truth with
some pretty little words?
My body may be a garden, but that does not mean I'm flourishing.