The Endless Harvest

If people are shit,
then I’ll use them to fertilize my garden.

I’ve grown content with their discontent,
knowing what this soil can bear.
Let their bitterness feed the roots—
I’ll tend to what grows there.

Bitter on the tongue,
sharp between the teeth,
until the fruit grows heavy
with a sweetness born beneath.

It’s worth the work of harvest,
but I must mind what I let grow:
a mind left thick with thorns
leaves little room to sow.

I grew them once for shelter.
Now they catch against my skin.
The same thorns that kept you out
have learned to draw blood within.