The Ground A Garden, My Body The Bouquet

orchids:
wrapped my body in white strips. built myself a chrysalis of white flags. i give up. put on a grand smile, raised my hem line, lowered my voice. i will conform to your standards. leave my soul in a body bag to be thrown out with all the other 'different' 'broken' things. weave a cotton rope and tie myself down.

peonies:
after tripping over myself, once again i am decomposing. the flowers do not grow in my sagging, decayed hip sockets; the part of my body so loved and hated by myself. sockets the perfect size for tulip bulbs. their little roots clambering to anchor into the ground; so terrified of remaining floating in the wreckage.

heather:
there is a tiny cot in my aorta. doubt sleeping in quadruple stacked bunk-beds. snuggled together under down filled blankets, looking like a stack of worn out puppies. feeding on the little bit of love i'd saved for myself.

irises:
little pieces shipped to mailboxes. forgotten 'fragile' labels buried on counter-tops under bills that remain unpaid. the phone line has been cut no sound getting in or out. whimpers are trapped in the curls. are we all too illiterate to hear?

lilacs: 
my body is not love, it is bone and flesh and broken nerves. it is a reservoir for all that can be given away. the shivers of delight. warmth of embrace. the desire to give it all for one. my body does. my soul it flies.

forget-me-nots:
plots mapped out. some under mature trees, others topping hills. all with the promise of solemn eternity.