there is a garden in my heart.
delicate petals bloom in my lungs, jasmine creeps between my ribs to hold me from the inside.
my flesh is fertile soil, my blood irrigation through bone and tissues of all colors
and i am rotting
what once was lilies is choked with weeds.
pruning is agony and plucking worse still.
the roots run deep into my chest, weave through my stomach and squeeze
thorns fill my head.
the delicate violets in my lungs wilt and die and line them with rot
it is hard to breathe.
vines creep up my bones, into my fingers, my knees, my mouth
and rot gushes forth from my lips, black and foul.
there is a garden in my heart, overrun with weeds