The words take root in my chest
and the flowers grow from my heart
I look at you and want to speak,
but the flowers die in my throat.

The roots strangle my heart,
and drink from my blood.
With every little beat and pulse, 
the flowers stretch a little more.

They spread to my lungs until
every breath carries scent of
the words that want to tear
themselves free of my heart.

The flowers creep up my bones
to my brain and press the small
petals to my thoughts with gentle
caresses soft as the spring breeze.

As the days go by the flowers
gradually wilt and are reborn in
their corpses, still ever seeking
a place where they might escape.

My organs are filled with
the decaying petals, yet I 
still live with them weighing
me down to the earth.


I imagine that once they cut
me open to deduce why I have
passed, the flowers will spring
free and the doctor will weep.

When they call you in to identify me,
the vines will be peeking beneath the
sheet, and when you see the flowers
I have grown you will smile.

When you softly touch the petals
the velvet of them will not surprise you.
You will touch my skin and somehow
know the flowers resemble myself.

I imagine that you will carry
just one imperfect flower home
and plant it with the words
I slowly wrote out in life.

And when you give it time,
when the flower grows enough,
it will dawn on you that you
have the same one in your chest.