Macabre Moments

I wish she loved me like she did her garden.

Do you know how it feels to be discarded and uprooted like a weed?

It’s cold all the time.

Like a winter’s chill covering petals.

She sprinkles her flowers with showers of love and warmth.

Do you know how ice feels when it is aimed with harmful intentions?

She used to smile at me.

Now she gives me looks of pity and annoyance.

Her favorite was always the tulips, more than the chrysanthemums.

Do you know what it’s like to be compared to the beauty of a flower in full bloom?

I don’t walk past mirrors.

Everything reminds me of life before the scar.

She spent her days, even nights, in her garden.

Do you know how much resentment grew inside me?

It blossomed on a warm summer night.

It blossomed so much it was as beautiful as a bright, red flower.

A rose of resentment.

I’m happier these days.

Do you know what it feels like when the weight finally lifts from your life?

I do. I very well do.

I don’t look at her garden, not at all.

Her garden is dry, withering—falling apart like it was always winter.

The soil is hard with decay and crawling with bugs.

Beneath it all, she lies with her skull bashed in, rotting.

Let her garden feed off her until they’re both dry.

Now, when I look in the mirror.

I smile.