there's a garden of words sprouting in my throat, whimpering wildflowers and wailing weeds caught in my words. when i open my mouth, sickness spills out, off-key notes and unhinged melodies ripping my relationships to bloody rags. how can i tell the truth when so much is a lie? maybe i don't want to pretend, to be in the skin of a girl who isn't me.
i tried to be perfect, picking pretty little poems and lovely lyrics from my lips. i wrapped wrong in ribbons, red roses on my tongue, and they dribbled to the ground in rivers of red.
the thistles are cruel, writing stories on my wrists. i am left in the meadow, where the thorns drown my thoughts.
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