Weeds In My Garden.

Song house said

“I’ll give you roses just hoping you don’t see the weeds on my garden.”

I said “clock it.”

I’ve seen this before.

I know the scent of cover-up,

the perfume of pretense.

The floral lies of fragrance.

*

I know gardens that grin in spring,

but bleed in autumn.

I’ve been handed petals,

while thorns wrapped around my ankles.

Tight. silent. disguised.

*

they said,

“isn’t it beautiful here?”

and I smiled,

while my hands bled behind my back.

*

there was a time,

when I too painted my soil

just to hide the rot.

wore tulips in my hair,

even as my roots withered.

*

there was a boy who said he loved my blooms,

but never once asked about my roots.

a friend who said I was radiant,

but didn’t stay

when my leaves started curling in.

*

and maybe,

I too learned to clip my own weeds,

pretend they weren’t there….

call them wildflowers

instead of cries for water.

*

maybe,

this is my garden.

half grief, half growth.

half wilt, half wonder,

half trees, half weeds,

but mine .

*

so no—

keep your roses and ordinate trees.

I’ll take my weeds,

and watch them bloom into something honest,

something divine,

something free.

*

Because these weeds

are the only parts of me unseen,

Tossed away for not fitting in with the garden’s theme.

But they’ve stayed.

They’ve held on.

So I hold them high

as the truth that lies within me,

as the strength that never dies.

*

Enough with the roses for now.

Some dandelions, chicory or thistles, maybe?

Something softer,

Something real and unending.

Something that doesn’t pretend to be perfect,

but just keeps grows anyway.