you salt my gardens green
reviving the trees
in which eden
used to swing

calling out to me
to bring my own tears
from the emerald sea
i give them to you

to control

for my gardens may know
how i have
lost my soul
far too long ago

I am pulling weeds from the garden and I want to scream "there is nothing wrong with you there is nothing wrong with you there is nothing wrong you"
I am replacing you with something beautiful and hard to maintain because I value appearances more than growth
There is nothing wrong with dandelions i swear, please do not develop a complex, I just cannot love you unless someone else does
My father spent years weeding me and trust me it gets easier
it hurts less if you learn to hate yourself the same way
There is nothing wrong with you I just have to do this he is coming over later and he might remember he doesn't love me if he sees you here
There is nothing wrong with you but I will **** you still
Like my father
Commended for everything I grow in the wake of what I ****
There is nothing wrong with you I scream but I will throw you away and you will wonder what is wrong with you anyway
He told me I have room to grow before hugging me goodbye
There is nothing wrong with you he said
I just don't want you here

Do you hate me?
Does it hurt that much?
Let me do it.
So that you won't have to die.

So soon and so young, I'll cut your thorns surface deep.

-Persephone

Bees nestle in sunshine flowers,

a once adrift cold cat now warm in her glory hours,

birds coo rounded and loud,

the awesome blue sky without cloud.

Although objectively wonderful I wouldn't like it as much if not for you two,

all your actions gilded love's hue:

I'm lucky I came up smiling from the roll of the parent dice

and this little back garden resembles paradise.

Roses can be White
Yellow or shades of Pink
But the Red are more expensive
Or so florists like to think

The seeds look very similar
Whenever you plant your borders
But once they show their truer form
It's too late to change your order

Sitting outside in my grandpa’s veranda,
he passed away before I could appreciate his presence;
he wished for me to come see his art;
his garden, a green maze of trees and bushes,
from marigolds and periwinkle to mango trees and whatnot.

As I lay here on the mat,
close to my grandpa, I might gladly add;
seeing the ants crawl up on the periwinkle blooms
and wild butterflies dancing overhead;
with a bulbul on a mango tree branch
and crows chattering near food dumps;
with a sweet scent of marigold in the air
and crickets chirping in the background;
with a mongoose running on the broad fence
and a squirrel eating rice that my grandma kept;
with the sun rays hitting my face through the trees
and a couple of flies hovering beside my novel;
with a moment of pure serenity,
that brings a peaceful calm to this tranquil space;
my heart feels full and my soul at ease.

As a gentle breeze whispers by,
my hair seems to be afloat.
As the fresh air clears my mind,
I feel alive like never before.
As I hear children playing nearby,
memories of my childhood days come alive;
one of the best moments of my life;
in this veranda forever entwined.
As I feel a soft breath of crispness on my face,
I reminisce about the times I had lived with him;
the village isn't as bad as it seemed.

This is the land where my ancestors lived;
and where I feel his presence still,
he must be smiling sitting on the chair beside me;
finally, content that I appreciate his accomplishment.

~
Mermaid in a manhole
suffering hibernation sickness
she drinks in every sob like wine
her oceanic call reverberates
whilst speaking dead languages
into the receiver
but slipping off melancholy
and blown a wish
by hide-and-seek lips
she chooses an unfamiliar light

****** with scissors
throbs of undamaged energy
from her vernal equinox
but in love with a bad idea
and beyond the minimum safe distance
she no longer plays at fragile volumes
and careful times
hands playing butterfly
pinch nippled skin
she chooses an unfamiliar light
~

rhapsodic pastoralism
as beguilingly bucolic as tempera gardens,
where nature’s wild beauty
is domesticated and made
into a safe space for dream and play,
reverie and revelry.

with the bright dawn
chatter of birdsong
it seems to reach your ear across distance,
like a girl singing happily to herself
while walking down the road
on the other side of your garden wall.