my first garden

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Roses are no longer poetic,
now they're just cliché,

because the most harmful thornes
are never out in the open.

I always liked marigolds
which still remain red, orange and golden.

They were the colour of your hair,
and I talked my father into building a garden
just so I had a piece of you to latch onto.

Late at night I'd pick the Flowers from the soil,
just to build a bouqet for your heart.

I handed you the dirty earth,
broken sun-kissed petals
and ferns that smelled like daffodils and the stars.

But you,
of course,

you wanted roses.

You rejected my invitation, and I
spent weeks just to kill these flowers for you.

you just wanted me to hand you thorns,
and i just never
wanted to hurt you

somehow, I still managed to.

You walked me back home from School
one crisp autumn
and you stared at my distinctive garden

stuck in a cycle
of black and white.

You swung open the forest green gate
in need of a paint job

and it clashed against the brick wall.

You grabbed the hydrangeas, the tulips, the sunflowers and
the lavender.

You stared at me pitingly.

"this tiny garden is all
you'll ever be able to grow."

Your words sunk me into the earth

and caused all the marigolds to wilt,

what once shone as bright as the sun
now
breathes in the dirt.

what once shone as bright as the sun now breathes in the dirt

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Don't let anyone hurt you like this. It's not your fault. You deserve so much better. You deserve to feel loved. You deserve to be treated like a precious Flower, because i promise you are.

You're all lovely and so gorgeous. You are Beautiful. Don't doubt that.

♡ Love, Amy ♡

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