The Close

For these are the things
that flow from your heart,
almighty mind.
Crumbled walls of splintered hands
broken by children riding bicycles,
and you are there
bound in the winding vines
of your jungle.
Speak, rose, of your thorns
and also of your color.
You have listened and so learned.
You know now what to say.
Your heart is not defined
by your face.
You are not symmetrical.
You are skinned knees,
for open wounds can let in light.
You have loved the wrong thing
and he has taught you
that there are worse things
than being crushed.
Begin now, to understand
that you are a mountain
covered in the expectations
of well-meaning daffodils.
See that they are beautiful,
but don’t listen to their words.
Don’t blame them either.
He was never wild.
He was only a small grey stone
for you to use
to shatter the glass around heart.
Break free, dear heart.
You will be a mountain that moves.