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 **** 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.