If I shred my vocal chords

will you hear my notes?

Your love is kind,

but All I have known is the wrath of the

blazing sun.

Conditioned to endure,

these calloused palms were

gifted a rose petal.

It rubs so smooth

it burns.

Brash tokens of endearment,

I know you have heard me.

I have snipped your stem,

claimed you as my own.

Your fearful petals have wilted,

and if not faced,

will fossilize.

Once again my hands burn,

both from being too open

and too punishing.

Playing God,

you are my Garden of Eden.