I've been granted a garden

but I'm picking petals

off flowers you never gave me

to place on my face

so whenI see you at Walgreens

you won't be able to tell how red I'll be.

I've got burn marks every space 

you've ever kissed me& I'm so sick

of saying "they're stains from where I spilt juice."

I drink nectar

to stay "so pretentious"

& wine

to stay "so goddamn pretentious."

Atleast that's what you used to say

and I'll never use "said" 

because I've determined

your voice is a train without a terminal

and food for thought in a famine.

February is the longest month,

it's been six weeks-

destruction takes a heartbeat

and growth, a lifetime.

And my branches are still bare

but bursting to blossom any second

just you wait.

The leaves were never even golden

only brown.

There's an end of a tunnel never found

& a light that's never put out

at the end,

but the fire burns no more.