I look at you beside art and I can't spot a difference.
the sight of you redirected my path in an unforeseen instant.
your train can leave but our thoughts have never been known to be distant.
when we speak
it isn't your turn and then my turn.
we continue each other's sentences,
writing a continuous love story
as if we are both suns
producing poetic photosynthesis.
the word "dim"
is now just an antonym
of my colors,
as your shine brings out smiles like they are made of chlorophyll.
and our time together is incapable of standing still.
it can't keep up, we move too fast.
but how can I be blamed
if you brighten everything, no matter how vast?

You're a ****
Most times I dig you out of the earth
The dirt gets under my fingernails, my heart beats fast because I dont want anyone to see-
And to think I'm a murderer.

But when I'm weak,
I water you
I pretend you're not there but I'll watch you out of the corner of my eye

Are you growing?
Is the sun treating you we-
No
Stop.

I'll ruin myself. Stop asking questions, stop giving attention.
I pluck you out again.

But you always come back.
I've planted other seeds.
I've gone months without looking at you.
I don't love you.

Stop filling my head and choking my tiny thoughts.

I'm sick of you.

it's been 240 days

and, almost each of those
i spent talking to you
or even with you, at times

240 days
in those days
i gave you parts of myself
more than i had ever given anyone else
but now it seems
it was way more than what you deserved

240 days
and while you held
parts of me in your hands,
you never really realized
how lucky you were to have those

240 days
and you still can't give back
not even love in the romantic sense, no
but what i wanted the most
your trust

240 days
and in those, admittedly,
you've brought me to great highs
but most of the time
sunk me beyond reach of anyone else
and walked away as i wallowed
in my own despair

it's day 241
and i realized i had been
watering a garden in hopes
something would bloom
but now i see how this garden
only has dead plants in it

you were a cactus
you were beautiful in your own way
but when i got close and embraced you
you stabbed me, but i patiently waited
as i bled

but maybe, just maybe, i know better now
maybe there are other plants
actually worth my time.

We are like weeds -
like painted clovers
who grow anxious
at the sight of
lovers and little girls
with petals in their hair,
like daisies stepped on
by rubber soles and padded heels
waiting patiently
while bees flock to tulips instead,
like muted dandelions
plucked from the roots
and tossed aside with
barren heads and broken stems
mourning for their
scattered leaves,
like ivy and creeping thistle
eyes shut and whispering,
whimpering to themselves
a solemn hymn
praying to be left alone
for now.

this is an alphabet of all the people
who have dug holes in me,
and of all the people
who are still digging.

this is a gardening guide
for would-be lovers and pretty faces
who do not even realize
that they are carrying shovels.

this is a weather forecast written
from past experience,
a reminder that winter
is not kind on crops,
no matter how firmly you pack the dirt.

this is me,
reflecting on seeds planted.

this is me,
reflecting on seeds left to die.

A,
i suppose it is fitting that the first letter
is also the first person to show me what it is like
to have seedlings sprouting up from inside you,
the first person to show me just how deep you really have to dig
to make the sting last.
you never came back to water what you planted.

H,
i’d like to say to that i ripped out your roots with my own two hands;
i’d like to give myself some credit in all this.
you don’t look as lovely as you used to.
you say i’ve grown distant.
i’m sorry.

J,
you always feel like being on the verge of something big.
you feel like summer, like a deep purple,
a bath of darkness.
you are everywhere that plants do not grow well.
and i have always felt — and still do feel — 
that that is such a grave injustice.
still, though you cannot speak the word “devotion,”
i beckon for more seeds.

P,
my greatest heartbreak.
heartbreak, though, is but a flesh wound when seen from afar.
and so i thank god for the miles between us.
i can feign forgetfulness when you are far away.
after all, what is a shovel in your hands if those hands cannot reach me?

S,
you are but a bud waiting to bloom.
and yet again i find myself so very afraid of growth.

(a.m.)

and they don't call him a garden fairy without a reason. the garden fairy secretly visits his favorite place in the world, every morning and night. his smile, like the warm morning sun, makes the flowers grow. his deft hands, like water, caress the young floral buds, quenching the thirst. his feet walk through the weeds, turning them into blossoms. his fingers, like the wind, skim the blades of high grass, without his flesh being cut. his voice, like growth nutrients, nurtured the changing. he never failed to tend to his garden that it was so taken care of, it flourished under his love. both the garden fairy and his garden bloomed in every season imaginable, in every time of the day, month and year. she was his garden, and he was her garden fairy.

sometimes,
often times,
i am cold.
there is snow within me and wild winds outside my door,
and i watch from the window while my crops wither.

i silence the sun.

he stands at my gate with nimble fingers and begs to be let in,
but i have always been a grove of shadows,
and he knows there is no space for him.

sometimes,
often times,
i am cold.

but other times,
spring finds me.
it lifts me up into its gentle arms and suddenly i am a field of clovers,
lucky,
rising up.
suddenly i am baby’s breath, i am pure,
i am a blooming hyacinth.

i am warm.

i know what a change in season feels like.

and i try to be loving.
but on the days when i have gotten up
and planted my seeds,
you are still tangled in thick black weeds and roots.
on the days when i am a rose,
you are the thorns,
and on the days when i grant the sun a chance to speak,
you take his tongue.

i know your pain; i have lived it.
but i will not give up my songbirds just because you are only left with crows.

i know what a change in season feels like,
but you are always winter.
and sometimes, i am spring.

so i will flourish.
and i am sorry.

(a.m.)

And we held each other as we weeped for our earth.
Our mother.
Mother nature, she gave birth to us and watches us as society hurts us, neglects us, and abuses us.
Feeling her tears in the rain, and her pain in the cold wind, her worry within the brewing storms, and discomfort in the scorching sunshine.
We take comfort in one another knowing someday things will get better my beautiful sister
And no longer will we cry tears for our mother's creations.
For our mother's home.
For our bodies that the world is destroying.