Feb 28

I Used To Think My Children Would Grow a Garden

I used to think my children would grow a garden.
Seeds sought out, writhing beneath the soil,
aching to be born into the sunshine.
Time flickering, restlessly, across the faces of sunflowers.

I used to think there would be space and time for a garden.
Just a plot of earth in which to call my world,
where my dinner table would spawn.
A simple arm wrapped across my weary shoulders.

I used to think I would have children.
My home would've become a wild garden.
I would've watered my little plants everyday,
tell them stories and not just at bedtime.
Teach them why they are not allowed outside,
free to roam the tireless meadows and fierce wilderness,
instead of locked indoors, spiteful and left to die.

The air is no longer breathable,
we would suffocate if we went outdoors...
but we're suffocating here too.
The water is poisoned,
no animal or plant drink from the depths of the earth,
but we're withering all the same.
The animals are mutant,
rabies would find us broken and on our knees,
but it doesn't matter
we're going crazy inside too.

Instead I spend my numbered days
teaching myself why I don't have a garden,
why I cannot go outside,
why I do not have children.

About the Author: fire girl
" to choose to write is to reject silence" - Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie