Magazine, website & books written by teens since 1989

The Rose Garden This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

Custom User Avatar
More by this author
When people find out that I’m bipolar,
They always say that they’re sorry.
Pity drips off their words like rain rolling off waxy leaves.
I have not deserved pity in years.
Not since the day I first pressed a curling iron into my wrist.
Four-hundred-fifty degrees blazed through my skin like an unforgiving sun,
X-Acto knives to chop down Amaryllis,
Scissors to slice sunflowers.
My body was a snow-white garden,
And all that grew were bright red roses.
I have not deserved pity since the day I passed out on my bathroom floor.
Drowning under a sea of scarlet stems,
Swimming in my own suffering.
When I woke up, I couldn’t stand.
My limbs trembling like little leaves.
I have not deserved pity since the day I defined strength by the number of fresh blossoms that flowered each day.
With only thirty new roses, I was weak.
The day I planted one-hundred-eighty-three seeds that sprouted into a field of wild flowerbeds,
The day my legs became a landscape of unrecognizable crimson pulp,
That was the day that I bloomed.
I have not truly deserved pity since the day I was ripped from the ground and sown into a hospital.
The day I saw what my body truly was.
Violent tic-tac-toe boards ravaging my thighs,
Wet etch-a-sketch lines ripped through my ribs,
Bleeding train tracks raking across my stomach,
The whisper of life on my lips.
I have never deserved pity.
Every scar is a reminder,
Of how much I have grown.
I am a garden of blue hydrangea veins, of tan daffodil skin, of pink orchid lips, of white lily teeth.
But I will never be a rose garden again.




Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!




Site Feedback