Pain Blooms (Spring 2014)

I broke your heart yesterday.

And mine was broken
right along with it.

The little green shoots
that bloomed in your heart
sprouting like magic beans
rapidly and chaotically
choking the open paths with growth
spiraled beyond the bounds
of that carefully cultivated garden
reached out
latched onto mine
where they continued extending
their little green lines
and I felt the pain
of their pricking
on the outside of my walls.

Watered by the tears flowing
through your heart
the roots gained hold
in that fertile soil
the little green shoots
that spreading vine
wormed its way past my walls
poking through like
weeds through pavement
cracking the surface
into fragments of concrete
explosions of broken rubble
endangers anyone who walks there.
And those fragments
lying there broken
accusing –
I’d still be whole
they say
if you hadn’t planted pain
in someone else’s peaceful garden.

Hot tears flow through the cracks then
matching the tears flooding your paths.

But these are different.
These won’t water those
shoots of pain
that spread through the cracks
planting themselves there
from the seeds of yours
won’t nurture them into giant beanstalks.
That beanstalk may take hold
in your garden
spreading roots through the soil
watered constantly by the steady stream
of your tears.
But my tears are hot
burning hot –
as they burn and blind my eyes
I know that these tears
flowing through the rubble
will singe the spreading vines
stop the growth.

I look at the beanstalk
spiraling tendrils creeping through
marring your garden
I feel its foliage
still reaching to join
with the vines that still
crack the fragments
into smaller and smaller
bits of crumbled rubble.
The hot burning tears
fill the cracks
flood and cover the growth
and I wait desperately
for the blooms
to burn.

But wet fire doesn’t incinerate
little green shoots
born of a giant beanstalk
that quickly or easily.

These broken fragments of concrete
will not become whole again.
And the little green shoots
will not disappear.
The landscape of my heart
is irrevocably changed
and all I can hope for
is a mosaic of concrete fragments
arranged neatly but never melded
covered with tangles
of black withered vines.

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