flowers and dead things

flowers growing on me
where dead things used to be.
they’re buried and gone
but never for long.

it’s an itch that can’t be scratched
and a weed that curls around
the limbs, rooting and seeding,
all the way to the bone.

compost my thoughts beneath
the skin, nurture
my mistakes within the cracks
and the creases and the weeds.

forgive the flowers for their bended
stems and weeping petals.

the curving roots tell bitter stories,
that may soon be washed out by the rain.

I pick at the dirt and try to nurture the growth,
I want the shoots to heal
these previous crimes;
let this garden be slowly reborn.

forgive yourself for the graveyards
and all you’ve buried with you.

flowers growing on my body
where dead things used to be.