Seeding

My body becomes a garden.

Suspected sprouts lay beneath the surface

And I massage my skin to sift through the soil.

Find a bump in the bed of a bloom

that I do not recognize.

Deep in my earth something grows

and I hesitate to call it living.

In my biology, there is no green thumb.

Ripped roots feel scarred and swollen,

Tender touches feel foreign against the petals of

My infancy, wilted spirit, and discolored purpose.

I wonder if it means something.

My solemn seed,

My brittle bud.

Do you already understand loneliness?

Trying to treat your genesis gently

lest I neglect my growing garden.

Water the potential of a plant

and feel expectant of the fruit.

Season and stew, feel sure.

Grow a weed and love it like a flower.