The Gardener

You tried to bury me,
a being
made of daisy seeds.
You neglected my weeds,
kept me
from what we need,
and left the sun
to dry my eyes.

You kissed me, wilting,
lips cracked and tough
from all the lying
in all the sunspots
inside our damned
tear ducts.

You plucked me away,
forgetting the strength
that we come from,
the earth
in my lungs;
she,
who hung you
in the sky,

as if you were the moon.
My petals dying
by the thought,
trembling in their roots
and impatient.

So taken
by any direction
other than towards you.
So then, we grew,
our stems slightly crooked too.
Blood thorns for clarity,
to cure the frailty
of the mind’s eye,
so delicately thin
and waving like us
in the wild wind.

You unhomed me
violently, sent my
best off flying
against your sour breath;
a naked dandelion –

And I swore
for a second there
you were trying
to knock me loose
from the dirt, to
darken the bruises
you left on me
and my leaves.

I always knew
you were a danger to me.