Published: September 4, 2016
you will come to realise that even the most beautiful flowers will wilt.
in three months rosa’s cheeks won’t be so rosy anymore and you’ll be standing over an urn watering the ashes in the hopes that your sister will grow back without the thorns.
she’ll leave them behind, buried in parts of your heart that you never even thought existed and it’ll sting so much you’ll be
screaming at family or rather
the people you’re supposed to call family
to not bring flowers to a flower’s funeral.
thought she could hide it behind her petals
but she couldn’t and that means
you should have watered the roses more. that’s what your mom will tell you for years to come, and she’s right because it was her fucking garden you walked right into and tainted with god knows what. because of you, she’s going to cut off her green thumb and bury it somewhere in the corner of the garden so it dies with the rest of the flowers.
and i’m sitting here in the dirt wondering if
god wilted too
i need you to be strong for this one
mom’s going to have affairs with alcohol, cigarettes and so, so many cigarettes while dad falls hopelessly in love with work. the garden’s starting to
drown in its own dirt and
they’ll tear up the garden. they’ll tear up the garden to replace it with a
parking lot and
at first it’ll feel like your heart has been torn from its roots but
i need you to understand.
more layers to a
parking lot than
what you might
at one point there was the garden -- trees and grass and pure untouched dirt and then somebody leveled it, maybe added a coating of gravel and paved over it and put some vehicles on top. but that doesn't mean the layers won’t still be there under the asphalt. the garden still lives on somehow, i mean.
and that's what i'm saying. you’ve still got something underneath the pavement
but you just can't get the cars to move out for long enough
to tear up the layers and plant a rose.
elise, i know you.
i’ve gone through what you have and i know
you’ll sit there and wait for that moment anyway. you’ll sit there
and feel other people's wheel marks burn into your skin while time paves prayers over you, maybe feel me punching concrete walls underneath
while the signs and lines that proclaim no parking get vandalized and
ignored for too long.
who knows? you’re only fourteen. i’m hoping you will start
finding beauty in the spray painted graffiti, the red streaks burrowing roots in your daydreams and cultivating a new garden in the
comfort of your head. it’s much easier that way,
having a keepsake all to yourself;
potted flowers safe in your room
i’m thinking you can tell me--
how was i supposed to ask a parking lot to bring a rose back to life
without looking crazy?
a crack in the asphalt is filled.
there goes another piece falling into place in the puzzle
not yet completed.