I was born in a garden,
and my mother is a rose.
I see roses everywhere
and am reminded of her,
as I am when I feel the scars
she has cut
into my flesh.
Wrapping around my younger frame,
my wrists,
my ribs,
my throat,
my ankles,
my head.
If not in words, then in actions:
speaking only roots and thorns.
She says:
“I love you
when you aren’t struggling.”
She says:
“Your pain
is not my problem.”
She says:
“Stay with me
while I whittle you down.”
Even now that I am grown,
I am barren and dead,
withering
from within.
Yet everywhere I turn,
I sense her seeds
flourishing in the crevices
of my mind.
I try not to struggle.
Struggling with anyone
makes me an easy target.
Anyone could pluck me bare
if I say or do something wrong
or stand out too much.
I swallow my pain.
Flowers are only presentable
when they’re not wilted.
I let the mites infest me
from below the ground
so no one else has to deal with me.
And I stay with her,
and let her seeds stay rooted within,
feeling too frail, too weak,
feeling how she grips me,
feeling like I’d fall without those briars,
knowing that ripping myself away
would hurt and alienate,
tendons displayed for all to see,
blood seeping into the garden
and rippling throughout.
My mother is a rose.
So sweet,
Yet sharp enough to kill.