The flowers I planted for you have bloomed into arresting patterns foreign, filling familiar trenches I thought I left behind years ago.
Framework abandoned to save a vessel that itself was the toxic turncoat, change change change the context when the pain presses.
Scenes bulimic spewing up their insides in my mind revealing and reviling the digested lessons, under cooked slabs selected so ceremoniously in retrospect.
I fought for you within, fighting to turn my heart inside out to reveal the parts of you I knew to dwell deep in my blood’s marrow.
Imperfect judge and perfect justifications, the you shining through my pores marred with my own biased ink.
Writing in the parts I want, my own perspective all I have to process makes those of variety vile feel routine.
I wonder why I wander this wasteland, the bodies of my warped creations peppering the landscape and my hand dug mass graves.
Which brings us back to the trenches.
Dig to cover, dig to hide. Entrench within earth divots then cross the divide. I don’t like what I’ve made of you, of it, of the things I’ve allowed to die.
Every time I unearth the buried I wretch, recoil. When weeping follows the reaping we fly to new soil, new beginnings in which our perfect gods can toil.
For us. For me. For the collective good of we.
I’m not sure what caused me to pause this time around, to pause over past graves and lower my seed bearing hand beneath the ground. Maybe it was grief, maybe it was me finally listening to that faint windswept sound.
The sound of my own iniquity, the sound of my choices poor. The sound of love softly knocking on the door.
Whatever it is I know I lack the words to describe; how does one account for the soft touch of the fragility opposite one’s pride?
One cannot. Though one can learn. One can let experiences bloom and on their own time to earth return.
So quietly I will gaze upon the pedals velvet and curved. Quietly I will listen to the muted rustling as moments stir.
Quietly I will steward what patches of creation I haven’t already spurned.