Gardens and dreams ruined by cigarettes and words

Remember in grade school

when we'd scrape our nails against friend's arms,

"planting crops" and "watering plants,"

telling naïve kids a garden would grow?

Well I was one of those naïve kids,

looking expectantly at my raw arm. Wondering when my garden would grow.

I remember coming to my father,

thrusting my nearly bleeding limb in his face,

asking how long it would take

for the flowers to show.

He'd take his cigarette

out from between his lips

and placed the tip

from my elbow to be wrist.

"You're too damaged, my dear."

He taught me that

my body is concrete,

meant for people to walk over me.

Nothing beautiful can come

from something so dead.

And I believed him.