Garden

Flowers are blooming in my lungs,

The kind that chokes.

Their petals press against my ribs, bright, delicate,

mocking my struggle for air.

Everyone tells me they’re beautiful,

this garden I never planted.

They marvel at the colors,

how the blossoms unfurl when I speak.

But they don’t feel the thorns inside,

don’t hear the way I wheeze

between every word.

I can’t fucking breathe.

What use is beauty

if it strangles me from the inside?

What use are petals

if every inhale

feels like drowning on land?

I want an empty chest,

just space enough

for air to run wild,

for breath to come freely,

for silence to not taste like pollen

clogging my throat.

These flowers,

they’re killing me softly,

turning my body into a vase

for a bouquet I never asked for.

And still,

the world points, smiles,

and says,

*how lovely.*

-dmnd