The Flowers Bloom Here

Breathless Lullabies

I don't fall for people easy.
I guard my heart with decks of cards and white roses.
You coaxed down the cards swords, and  you didn't prick your fingers on the thorns of innocent roses.
You walked through the poppy valley that is my mind, and sauntered towards my soul.
Burning with a passion so bright it could have been the neon lights I met you under.
I have a lot of problems.
Past people ripping apart my eyes like sheets of tattered sail, tossing them into endless waving oceans, no shore to be seen.
Memories tormenting my dreams, a child's nightmares of blood red dragons turned bigger, sadder.
Empty vases, and empty museums in my life that should have held a child's happiest flowers.
I use my smarts as a windshield against the storm of loneliness.
I am destined to die alone, probably reading the books thrown about like scattered birds in an abandoned library.
My heart was not made to be loved, but you found a way to let me fall for you.
My trust is as fragile as my music taste,
Or a freshly planted pine sapling.
Not to be blown into like a Nintendo cartridge, not to be rushed like the opening of a dr. Pepper bottle.
You made it inside my guarded heart, and you are met with a city scape, with all the lights turned out so you can see my Milky Way of thoughts,
All the lights turned out except one.
A bulging building in the far corner of your eye shrinks out of view whenever you look in its general vicinity.
That is my favorite part of me.
The part which I clutch to when I'm standing on the tallest buildings, looking down into the bustle below.
The light is warm, soft.
Like a mother swaddling a newborn child.
That part of me is my previous happiness.
My poetry. My past loves. My mother.
If I let you in, I know you'll twist and flick the light off with the power of greed.
You are human, I cannot change that.
But I will love you all the same,
And please.
Don't prick yourself on white roses when you walk out and slam the door behind you.