We live in our own secret garden
holding on to charm braclets of lock and key
that chimes when we knock on doors
no one answers to.

Someone will spill a bag of marbles
on the floor
just to see others slip and fall.
If your reason to live
is to see people hurting
then shall I die
in front of you.

It's a garden with no pulse.
The rain hitting our bare skin
won't wash away
those pity lies we tell ourselves.
So move on even for a doubtful tomorrow
garbled in marron.

Cut my memories to pieces
into dusty old boxes.
Lable them "to be forgotten"
and dozens more to go.

Entering the sacrifical garden.
We stand on the bottom waiting for the person on top
to jump.
Not counting to 3.
She has splattered all over the sidewalk.
What a mess she made.
Who's next in line?
May I go first.
I promise I won't be as messy.

 
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