If I’m human, how does the world drift me around without my consent?
Who gives the permission to my peers to use me like tools as they neglect to cherish me?
I always forgive but its a task to forget. It’s consistently the same thing.
I watch friends and enticed flames grow roots around my ribcage and bait me into showing them how to open locked doors with no obvious space for a key.
I let them inside,
times after I promised no one else would tread within the temple or gaze upon my weaknesses.
And I tend to put my hope in the wrong seeds and they never grow to be the kind of dream I want them to be.
I need them to be flowers.
I worry that I’ll always be the lover and never the loved.
Cuz everyone’s heart is looking for a throne room
but they always oblige my chest temporarily until some other pedestal is divinely delivered that seems to hold them better but is less of a challenge to get on.
So one after another,
I become the change that needs to be made to in order to achieve perfection and I am unapologetically discarded.
And I pluck the dry weeds, that never sprouted floral buds, from the space beneath my collarbones. With one blade I buzz,
“You love me”
“You love me not” with the next.
What excuse is there for all the failed gardens that tried to flourish in the fence of my bones?
There’s rainy days,
my eyes puffed up the size of heavy gray clouds.
I keep the sun hidden in the creases of my smile just to share in moderation.
But nothing grows with me.