Withered Garden

I hate you.

I hate the way you crept into my garden and watered my soil.

I hate you for almost killing the gardener.

You came with all the right tools but none of the experience.

You walked into my gate with an arrogance cloaked in subtle confidence.

You admired my flowers and complimented my green thumb,

But as you captured my attention and I looked away,

You sprayed weed killer on my petals and blamed it on the sun.

As I cried,

Wondering where I went wrong,

Asking you,

“The expert” for advice,

Off you wandered to your wall of stone you had built up so high.

With your self-centered,

Rose-colored perspective,

You dug holes in the ground,

Terrorizing my roots of existence.

My garden started withering away,

Frowning at me with disappointment.

But with my tear-stained,

Starstruck pupils,

Blind from staring at you for far too long,

My reality started collapsing from the inside,

Soon to explode from false pretenses and shattered promises.