“Am I worthy of love?”
I ask myself.
My mind is a garden
With twisty vines and parasitic weeds;
I pull them out and keep what I need.
As I look unto the now empty plot,
Is there room for love?
There’s room for a lot.
My sweat and tears drip into the dirt,
And buds erupt from the foundation of my mind.
Little by little, flowers bloom.
I’ve learned, for love, to always leave room.
Seasons change and so do I,
And I plant new flowers as old ones die.
My tears become rivers that run through my garden,
Continuing growth I’ve already started.
These flowers are not to be picked,
And gifted to others.
They bloom for me,
Not for my mother.