There is something beautiful about a bruised and lemony being.

The hardened, yet pulp, of what was once a normal person

Who grows flowers out of cuts and bruises,

where she tends to the garden on her wrists.

She is steel and sand with sadness behind her eyes

and anger under her tongue,

for she'll never ask you to carry any of it

But you still do.

She is a piece of art against a beige wall,

She is the storm cloud in a sky of white,

She is the pyramids on a barren landscape,

the flame in the sea of night,

the flower growing out of a crack in the sidewalk

She'll never ask you to care for her

But you still do.

Because you've seen the garden she grows.

You know that even through the winter they are still never ugly.

Only to her.

And in the spring,

when she bares them to strangers, they blossom.

She is lemony sweetness with a bitter sting,

Her voice is soft, but her words leave your tongue sore.

You know who stings her,

but you are the sugary sweetness that holds her.