Blades and sharp things,
prescription drugs and colored pills.
Sleepless days and secret hideaways,
her secrets are now in my hand.
Dark poems,
hazy verses and haphazard words.
Scribbled out words and shamed thoughts,
her mind is cluttered and sad.
She said she fell in love with her sadness,
clung to it, used it.
Diving deeper into the mass of destruction,
every part of her slowly crumbling.
Slowly, I know,
she will turn into a monster.
Destroy everything around her,
including herself.
She will dance in the ashes as the flames fizzle out,
and watch the sun rise in the dark forest.
Blackened and bruised,
she will discover herself once again.
She will find out that there are other versions of her,
ones she could learn to love.
There are those that paint, that sing, that write,
those that lose themselves in books, and love the people around them.
She will rebuild,
grow new flowers in her garden.
She will learn the secrets of the universe,
and speak foreign languages both floral and spicy.
YOU ARE READING
the city
Poetryand no matter how much you water scorched grass and withering weeds, you will never make a garden re-grow -M.R c.2016
