the things that rip
and tear at you
linger not in the shadows
but in the corners of light;
so audacious that they
proclaim themselves captors
in the brilliance of day.
the blades of grass come alive
and swallow you,
burying you under a lawn
that this morning
was perfectly manicured--
and will be so again
tomorrow--
right now
the garden is simply
digesting.
you have become the mulch--
your sweet naiveté,
your delicate skin,
your impossible
reminiscing
feed the suburban monster
you so ignorantly tried to befriend.
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