The Garden Burns Beneath the Stars

The path is too quiet,

too perfect, too still.

Flowers shudder in the breath of night,

petals trembling as if they sense

what is boiling beneath my skin.

The stars do not care.

They glimmer, indolent, distant,

watching like a thousand indifferent gods

as I unravel beneath them.

Their light is cold,

their beauty a mockery,

a cruel reminder that nothing here

was ever meant for me.

I walk.

The stones creak beneath my weight,

whispering secrets to the earth.

The cypress trees stand sentinel,

dark fingers clawing at the sky.

The wind slides against my cheek,

a hand I do not want,

a touch I cannot stand.

I am shaking.

It is not fear.

Not sorrow.

It is fire without a name,

it is fury,

it is something primal,

coiled in my ribs,

tangled in my throat,

thick in my pulse.

It claws,

it howls,

it begs to be set free.

The garden pretends it does not hear.

The stars blink.

The flowers lean away.

I want to rip them from the ground,

grind their golden faces into dust,

make them feel the sharp edge

of something that has been caged

too long inside of me.

I want the moon to crack,

to split like old bone,

to pour out the darkness

that swells beneath its cold glow.

I want to scream—

not words,

but sound,

but violence,

but something that could shatter

the brittle hush of this place.

But I do not.

I walk.

I breathe.

The anger simmers,

but it does not fade.

And the stars, still watching,

do nothing at all.