My body becomes a garden.
Suspected sprouts lay beneath the surface
And I massage my skin to sift through the soil.
Find a bump in the bed of a bloom
that I do not recognize.
Deep in my earth something grows
and I hesitate to call it living.
In my biology, there is no green thumb.
Ripped roots feel scarred and swollen,
Tender touches feel foreign against the petals of
My infancy, wilted spirit, and discolored purpose.
I wonder if it means something.
My solemn seed,
My brittle bud.
Do you already understand loneliness?
Trying to treat your genesis gently
lest I neglect my growing garden.
Water the potential of a plant
and feel expectant of the fruit.
Season and stew, feel sure.
Grow a weed and love it like a flower.
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