Maybe snow cones
And pickup lines
Aren’t meant to go
Hand in hand,
But I needed a map
Because I was lost in your eyes.

You gave me a snow cone
I gave you my number
And maybe
That’s not a good trade
But you thought
Maybe
It was worth it
At least for one night.

You’re just a football-playing
Baseball boy
And maybe
There was a spark
And maybe
You liked the taste of grape
That lingered on my lips
And maybe
You’re still going
To text me back.

But maybe
Is no assurance
To a girl
In love with love
And boys who make
Snow cones.

If we could see
What windows can see
As they gaze out into the night,
Would we stand there amazed?
Perplexed and quite dazed?
Or simply be filled with a fright?

The windows reflect us,
Their glass won't perfect us,
But still we have reason to stare.
Because windows they show you
Yourself like they know you,
And unknown they catch all unaware

My garden was always
More lethal than pretty.
Thorns, not roses
Berries too deadly to eat.
Surrounding me.
Surrounding my house,
And heart.
Letting in none.
My own blockade.

Then you came.
You plowed through
The tall thorns, throwing
kisses and sweet words.
You planted beds of tulips
Where thorns had once been.
The berries?
They've rotted,
The sweet lullabies and promises
Too much to handle.
In their place grows wildflowers,
A meadow, calling my name.

My garden was then,
More pretty than lethal.
Where thorns had thrived,
Blooms took over.
Where stone once sat,
Trees had grown.
A garden.
Filled, yet empty.
No longer my own
Blockade.

But weeds
Silently take over the flowers.
Lies drown the wildflower meadow,
which once grew freely in my heart.
A blockade begins, thorns thriving once again.
And then you leave.

My garden was always
More lethal than pretty.
Thorns, not roses
Berries too deadly to eat.
Surrounding me.
Surrounding my house,
And heart.
Letting in only you.

Now my blockade
Of thorns without roses,
Waits.
Waits to be
More pretty than lethal.
••• ••• ••• •••
-T.C., Broken Blooms