Growth
She needed no fertilizer.
She was a plentiful and majestic sanctuary.
Lilies sprouted from her eyelashes and the wild grass that grew in her underarms
and in between her thighs was long
and rich with small bushels of lilacs like a gift. She drew
her power from the sun and with every day, she grew
stronger and more magnificent.
The brown soil
from which her flowers grew was soft and absorbed positivity only
to then manifest it into another one of her glorious bouquets.
But with time, spectators approached and abused
her plethora of wonders. They slept in
her grass and plucked a carnation as a souvenir of their travels
only for it to die within days.
She was told that gardens should be well kept
if any wanderer was to love her foliage.
So, she grabbed the rusty garden scissors
and beheaded the proud blades that shielded her
from undeserving hands.
That was not enough. She ripped out tufts of vegetation
With their roots still attached.
It brought her pain and
she bled and cried but
she wanted to be loved.
So there she stood, a handsome, polite, manicured garden.
Then more came to sleep on the now bare soil.
And rubbed salt on her freshly plucked grounds.
The sun dried out her flakey, cracked surface.
She was unoffending to the eye but lost a piece of herself with every falling flower.
Every broken blade.
And the flowers that she did let grow,
The few, boring morsels of life still clinging to her,
They feared her and grew with caution.
Never to speak out of turn for fear of amputation.
She never again learnt to let her Earth grow with freedom.
She never saw another lilac.