If every glistening tear I shed

were to fall to the dampened soil

only to emerge from the earth a fragile bud,

I’d have my own secret garden.

One so large and magnificent that if people could,

they’d travel from far across the seas

just to catch a mere glimpse of my blooms.

My unkempt secret garden,

with it blooms growing in every direction

would hold the pieces of myself that I’ve tried so very hard

to shed away like a second skin,

like the way a butterfly might shy away from its cocoon,

from the thing that kept it trapped for so long.

The envious glares I’d get would be wasted

for I would pick every flower from my garden and hand them out like fliers

but you see, the paper cuts burn too much and the thorns dig to deep.

The vines sliver their way around my heart painting me red

But still, everyone would be envious,

even as they see the pain caused by these flowers

because they’d be blinded by beauty.

And nobody would know where these mysterious blooms came from,

nobody would know the stories behind each tear I shed,

and nobody would know that I had an entire garden made just from you.