She started with the dirt.

and so it began:
salty dreams dripped like rain water from her heart,
sounding like bass drum parade when
they bombarded  
the seeds below.
Boom, bang.

and her symphony began.

Her eyes only rested softly on the peach petals and
green she wished to see one day,
trying to line them up in her mind.
Finding order in the colorful plumage
one could grow and

Row by row
She began to sow
Her own
beauty.

Every day spent, relentlessly push-pulling
with the thorned roses and monsooning
for her scars. She’d bind their branches and with scarlet
fingers, she’d bless each white petal she found
with blood across his white flesh,
so that he too, would not be taken for some
innocent fool, so easy to
pluck apart.

She lived this way for many years,
routinely carving out her heart for the
flowers in her garden.

for this notion
of keeping something pure

in a world so filthy that the only
place a flower has to grow is
in the mud and
the only way a flower is supposed to be able to grow pretty
is with“Fertilizer”.
Then one day,
she finally realized that all fertilizer is,
is ****.

That very night she built herself a greenhouse
with her bed at the very center of the garden
and she threw out all the fertilizer
she’d bought at Lowe’s on sale earlier that week. She began to
practice sleeping with her thoughts and her cultivation,
the smell of fresh mud and potpourri
tormented each other the minute her head hit
her grassy green pillow and she would let her garden fester,
foliage bounded by her fear.

Once her fingers began to wrinkle and her voice no longer
bounced back at her from her fortified walls,

she found herself

tangled in the freely flowing vines she had once
kempt so well. The peach petals and green
made her heart squeeze as they grew lovingly,
between her toes
to her chest
and around her neck.

As she dreamt, they did not suffocate her
like she believed they would, one day long ago. The
dirt felt water-like beneath her back, soothing her bedsores and
sounding of the bass-drum parade from many years ago,
when she listened closely. Her eyes fluttered with
every bang and she found her peach petals again-

all so chaotically contained, their colors
stifled by the jagged walls she built for herself.

Taking in their unique passions and thorns
in one steady breath, rainwater fell for her
flowers softly this time. With every drip-drop,
each rose played his own sweet note.
Triangles and marimbas and strings
serenading her into bliss.

We can only dream that she found beauty
in her cultivations, just as they
found
in her.

i should start off by saying that this is for you, and only you.
i write lots a pretty words and say lots of pretty things- most are regurgitations of
previous poems, thoughtless thoughts of those around me, and romanticized philosophy.

that’s not what i’m going for here.

i. i ******* love that you’re a reader. the way your eyes glow gold despite the deceptively dark brown makes me wet- when you talk about words that is. the letters leave your tongue and i taste them on mine, spicy-sweet.

i’ve always liked the adrenaline of the risky burning sensation, and still, i can’t seem to shake my sweet tooth.

so this seems like the perfect arrangement.

ii. you split my skull
and read the coffee-stained pages
better than i ever could.

iii. i don’t know how it should make me feel.
i worry about things like that though,
you know this (and i hate that you do).

i feel the pages falling from my weathered binding, from too many reads.
too many ***** fingers skimming metaphors about porcelain for skin and cracks for scars,
similes about a heart like my favorite charred marshmallows,
and onomatopoeia to resonate high frequency cries for meaning/help/love.

you hear me, though.

you don’t skim or race to ******.
you caress every soft curve, letting your fingertips trace the letters. you rewrite them into existence, as if to say, “They are here!”

and in the margins you give them new tenderness-
new
forgiveness.

iv.
you tell me to stop saying sorry
but, there’s this need for redemption
i can’t shake.

you see, i’ve never walked straight enough
or smiled bright enough
or been good enough-
to keep anything in my life.
and i know that that’s what life is about.

but something in my soul screams
to be that hiding place, for someone.
where they can write all their secrets and cliche notions, store the memories they can’t bear to lose or look at, and keep them safe.

when i’d sleep, i’d visit the museum of that hiding place.
and spend hours
looking at the polished artifacts-
and the dusty ones too.
i’d study them

so that when i’d wake up,
i could take that someone on a tour.

this time, not alone.
think of the things we’d learn.

v.

we’d revisit their history, i’d explain the relevance of each

for you,
we’d see

the skeletons of loves and lives lost, the wax figures not accurate enough to bring them back.

the coping mechanism prototypes recalled for their danger to society and the casket you tried to bury yourself in when they hurt too much.

the ancient scrolls of your past lives, written in a language i’d spend my life learning if i could speak it fluently with you.

the broken ceramic plates from the steak & shake we worked at- i was horribly clumsy, accidentally throwing things at you when you looked the other way. i never wanted to hurt you, and somehow, we always manage to laugh.

vi.
speaking of which
the way you laugh

like you don’t deserve to, but **** it you’re gonna do it anyway.

first of all, you do deserve to.

second, it’s the brightest light i’ve seen in my life. we’ve both spent too many days alone at sea, thunderclouds purpling the heavens and drowning our breath. but, somehow, you make this lighthouse laugh- and your smile splits through the storm.
i’d follow it home

and third, i’m sorry
i’m not close enough to tickle it out of you.
quite literally- i’d spend days and nights doing so, given the chance.
less literally-
i’m sorry
i’m too far and too late
to make up for the tickle days
i wasted.

vii.

i don’t know what this means
to you/for us

i don’t know lots of things. i don’t know why it drives me crazy. and
i don’t know why you do either.

viii.

i just know
i wanted to tell you.

(then and now)