My Garden

This is what you do, day in and day out. You are strong, a leader, and you will not stand for humility. You strive for perfection, and in no way could anyone point out a flaw without initiating a challenge. A challenge of which you never lose. You fight, whether it is with words or swords, and it is because of this that makes love complicated.

You've been fighting again, day in and day out. You yell, you break things, but at some point it stops, and you look at each other. Your eyes show nothing but weariness, but it fades with the night, and in the morning you're cleaning the mess. Everyone knows how it is. You will never admit you're wrong, because it's hard to admit you've made a mistake, that you're not perfect. Only in your darkest dreams have you ever acknowledged that you've messed up.

Flowers lighten a dim lit room; something you have never really noticed before. The flowers of a previous night had wilted and withered, and in their place are bright red Amaryllis'. It almost seems like an eerie foreshadow, looming over your subconscious only for a moment, but you don't understand it. You sit up in your bed, looking around the bleak, nearly empty space.

There are no birds singing to fill the silence, nor the turn of the page of a book. You begin to move, feeling no warmth from the early morning sun beyond your window, or the smile of your beloved. After a quick wash, your clothed, fresh but not quite new, and move on. Somewhere in the house is a wadded up piece of paper among many others in a metal trash bin. A broken pencil adorns the desk beside it, and the chair is not quite in place.

You spend the day alone, with no companion in sight until you're home again, and he's too far into his dreams to notice you walk in. You clamber into bed beside him, having not said a word all day. You feel something build up inside you and all around, like static clinging to your form.

It's a new day, and you find yourself fighting again. You yell, a snarl morphing your face into that of a wolf. You've taken offense to something, or perhaps you've misunderstood it. You don't even know anymore, but you recall the static, felt its charge and now it fills the air. He slams his fist on the table; you smack a vase onto the floor. The shatter seems to almost explode loudly, violently, and you finally stop. For the longest time, you both are silent and panting. Anger leaves his gaze, and you know you've won this challenge of your being. But you don't feel victorious.

He looks weary, and you both leave for the bed without another word. It's perhaps the longest night you've ever had, and when you wake up, it still feels like you're dreaming. You sit up in bed and swear you saw him, his eyes still weary and sad, but you avert your wondering mind to the note on the edge of the bed. You read it and begin to feel sick to your stomach. The static has left the air- the tension is gone, but the knot in the pit of your stomach has grown.

He's gone now. You're out of bed, your fingers tracing over the tabletop. Taking the time to look around, you see the damage that's been done. In the dull wreckage, you notice that the only thing still standing is that table and the glass vase of red Amaryllis' beside you, still perfectly intact, unfazed and unaltered by the devastation. You lean against the table and pluck a flower from its holder, your face expressionless from the pain you felt numbly. It's in that moment that you awoke from your darkest dream. Holding the flower close, you twirl it within your fingers thoughtfully. Your damn foolish pride, flourishing in the chaos, never faltering, makes love complicated. You drop the flower onto the floor along with the glass shards and scuff marks. It's a new day, and you find yourself cleaning the mess you've created- cold and alone, with nothing but your pride to keep you warm.