Before I met you I was broken, with scar beds deep as rivers adorning my veins.
You didn’t see those scars, and I doubt you knew about them.
But you planted seeds of hope, love and happiness in the beds of my wrists.
And with every word you said to me, you helped flowers grow up out of them.
They were beautiful and they made me feel beautiful, because you put them there.
You tended to them and soon the beds began to close and the flowers kept growing.
I was broken, and you fixed me.
Then slowly slowly you forgot me, and you forgot the little garden you planted in me.
Without you the flowers began to wither and die, and the beds opened up again and the flowers fell out.
The cracks that you cemented closed with little jokes and poetic words began to show again until the cement crumbled out making the cracks wider and bigger than before.
Now I see you with her, and I see her with a garden on her wrists too and word cement holding her together.
She’s not broken.
Please come back and grow another garden for me and seal the cracks.
I need it more than she does.