“Your flowers, my garden”

by Clover Estrada

Part One.

The scars that trace down my skin,
past my shoulders and down my back
to my arms, to my arms, to my arms –

They leave reflections of you
i see when i lift it up to the light

They are the flames that burn my skin
until it flakes into dust

They are the arms that
wrap around me
on my coldest nights

They are my everything, because
they’re you, they’re you, they’re you.

And every harsh word i will never forget

And every heartbreak you made me feel will resonate deep in my soul

because it’s you, it’s you, it’s you.

Part Two.

And i wish i could rip away
these thorns
embedded deep in my skin

But i could never
brave my forest of scars
and tear apart
every thorn and vine

Because i would lose
the flowers that once grew –
bloomed from my hands to yours –
the way my body
would erupt in petals and glow

The way that my bedroom would
become a garden
and i would
dance, dance, dance.

Unafraid of the buds that nipped at my toes and fingers

Because you told me
you had a garden
too

And while i couldn’t wait
for everyone to see me bloom,
you were afraid of what
it might mean

if they could see

The way my roses intertwined with your carnations
And so
you would cover them
with clothes lined in silk

And i was to follow your lead.

Part Three.

But my roses – too red of color –
kept bursting at the seams,
their petals peeking out
from my shoulders
and blooming up to my neck

And so i
stripped myself
of all my layers
that kept them hidden

But i had
showed my flowers
to someone
who had none.
They ripped and clawed
at my roses, hard enough
to draw b l o o d .
They pulled of
His layers of silk
and revealed the flowers
once held so close to his heart

Part Four.

One by one, the petals began to fall

They hated the way our flowers curled around each other

And soon enough
your red carnations
faded to y e l l o w .
They refused to intertwine with mine
no matter how much
my roses
cried out for them

And then my roses were blue.

Part Five.

Flowers don’t bloom from my skin anymore.

The scars of where they used to be
ache to my very core
I rip and claw
at them sometimes,
hoping maybe if i can find
some thorns that never left
they will lead me back
to the outlines
of the roses on my skin

And i wonder
what our flowers could have bloomed into
if i had never
revealed them.
If i could have held them back
from pouring out of my fingertips

Or maybe,
i shouldn’t have bloomed at all.
maybe my roses should have been
daisies, and maybe your carnations
should have always been yellow.
maybe i should have
ripped the flowers from my skin
when they first grew,
before you could see.

But now i can’t forget

These scars remind me
how your flowers
felt against mine,
something
i don’t think i could
bear to forget.

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