You said I was your flower,

but I’m a garden.

Marigolds watered with my tears are wilting in the shade.

Pale peonies suffocate the withered daisies.

Muted magenta basil blossoms swallow the bloodied roses.

and I lie in carnations, yellow and crimson,

covered in crab-apple petals.

The flowers grew in your footprints.

Slowly, the sun drives away the dark

and clusters of yarrows climb the sky

and ginger and hawthorn sprout,

drowning your dead nettles.