sometimes i feel a brittleness so shallow in my bones
that feels as fragile and as sweet as honeysuckle stems
yet so bitter in itself, closed in upon skin with tattered stitches and unfinished hems
and it leaves me to wonder when i'll learn to sew so my scars won't be shown
underneath the pretty petals to which i am condemned

i find my veins wrapped like vines around my body, hollow by design
while i'm pried open and everyone can see the system of roots stretching
this fragile ache is scratching and begging and pounding and wrenching
its wretched form back and forth between my lungs, and heart, and mind
until there are wildflowers in my lungs and i'm curled into a ball, hardly breathing, heaving, retching

there are flowers beneath the surface of my skin, drenched in sin and catching fire and picked up by the wind
but they scatter rather than turning to ashes, defying the laws of matter and whispering i don't matter
given the choice between tasting their poison kiss and listening to them hiss and burn, i'm forced to choose the latter
for no matter how desperately i wish for an escape, i owe too many debts to break their promise and give in
and so i'll sit and grow and split my thoughts in two until i'm rendered anew and i hear the rain's pretty patter