He didn't like the flowers
that sprouted beneath my collarbone.
He hated the red oak
and the fruit that I'd grown.
So I plucked every petal,
brought sheers to my throat
No longer my haven,
I was a garden of smoke.
Now he holds my wilted pieces
with a face of disgust
and decides an empty garden
is just too much fuss.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 1:14 AM UTC
He didn't like the flowers
that sprouted beneath my collarbone.
He hated the red oak
and the fruit that I'd grown.
So I plucked every petal,
brought sheers to my throat
No longer my haven,
I was a garden of smoke.
Now he holds my wilted pieces
with a face of disgust
and decides an empty garden
is just too much fuss.
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