This Body

You wake one morning
to find an emptiness inside your chest.
Where once was a heart, and lungs,
now is a barren husk holding broken dreams,
lost causes, and ghosts from your past.

You consider cracking your ribs,
one by one, splaying your chest open
for everyone to see, saying,
Look. Look at what I’ve become.
See how broken I am.

You decide to plant flowers instead,
scooping your dusty remains up into your chest,
packing the ashes down like soil.
Pray something can still grow here,
that enough life remains for that.

You water the seedlings with your tears,
whispering words over them
to coax them into drinking
instead of drowning, that tricky line
between thriving and dying.

You wake another morning,
months from now, to a garden
bursting from your chest and spilling over.
A bouquet with flowers of every color,
vibrant and oh so alive.

You push your ribs closed,
one by one, stitch your chest up
until you are whole again, saying,
Look. Look at the life I still
hold inside of this body.

Originally published in Ink&Nebula.