Our lives were tangled together.
Beautiful vines
with delicate flowers
that would lift their heads up
towards the glow of our love.
Nourished.
Whole.
Healthy.
Our garden bloomed.
I would run my fingers
through the bed of coarse and black
perennial locks upon your crown,
just to hear your sighs of satisfaction and contentment.
Days were spent basking in our sunlight
that seemed impossible to eclipse.
The garden grew,
and it became much too large for us to care for.
I found myself lost in the labyrinth of
your Venus flytraps.
Sharp tongues
nipping at my body.
A new species of flora
that I helped to cultivate.
The garden began to wilt.
Colorful blossoms were replaced
with unsightly weeds.
Our beautiful vines
began to grow thorns
and slowly untangle themselves.
Our sun began to set.
Together we fashioned a lasso
and tried to catch it.
But the thorns from our solitary vines
frayed our attempts at retrieval.
Our love was escaping
from our clutches.
At dusk you told me
you didn’t love me anymore.
Now I sit
in the darkness
alone
digging as deep as I can
to I bury these seeds
where they will never see sunlight again.
Damsel in Profess 