His flesh is pale and beautiful
His eyes are piercing as he started
Up beneath the vines and stems
That have grown around malnourished limbs and torso
The vines keep him there
his body twisted and heavenly
starving and skinny, helpless
the angel of decay
my garden is barren
I rarely have the strength to keep
My flowers alive
The water is tainted with ash
the dirt, cracked and dry
through the wilted stems and needle-thin roots
He grew out of the garden,
He was raised by my silent cries,
In the womb of my flowerbed
He the only one that could hear them
He nourished himself off of my anger
My desperation to heal the garden
to fill the holes of empty patches
where life should have grown
I often join him in the soil
Curled up in his arms,
Even if the thorns cut my skin
even if it hurts
I hold him
I'm growing the devil in my garden.
And the best part, he doesn't need water
he only needs me.
The garden grows weaker
And weaker
But I don't care.
Even if it costs my garden (what is left?)
I would not mind it
when the thorns got to my eyes
all I saw was Him
What mattered in the garden was
the feeling of his touch
Against the cold winds
On this desolate rock
I found the Devil in my head
and I have never felt so alone
