I am on a small raft
With tattered sails and rotting wood
dwarfed by the incoming wave that the ocean has so long been planning
and you say to me:
How are you not afraid?
But how do I tell you that I probably am deathly afraid
that I'm so used to swallowing everything I feel
so that emotion can live in my gut and not on my face
I know my skin is too soft for the sharpness of fear
so I nurture it in my gut and hope that not mold but flowers will grow.
I have been trying to grow flowers from the dirt he left for a while now.
But I have shoved it so far down that no sunlight can reach it
I think he was become the mold that creeps up my side when he is mentioned.
Did I love him? Probably not.
But just knowing that I became boring to him
That my name that once tasted of cool mint
was now bland when it rolled off his lips.
Maybe that's what hurt me.
Because I did not miss him after he left
but I missed the naivety I had before him
that I could never become boring without even trying
But I guess I am a true horticulturist my dear
because not only can I grow boredom
I can grow fear and laughter like perennials
and flowers with colors so bright they blind you
but you can only grow mold, stuck so far in the dark.
I suppose it's time to dig you out.
