Gardening the Sorrows (Blame)

***As of recently, I've been having relationship problems. If you've read my last poem, you'd understand. She has decided it is best to just end things ... and, honestly, it is more difficult to face than if she were to cheat on me. She simply "fell out" of love, and what saddens me most, is that this is a problem I can not fix ... and I can only blame myself. ***

The seas beneath my feet are spinning, twirling
a breathless maw of uncertain failure.
My scarred wrist extended to the chalky sky,
bound by a barbed-wire noose,
holding me ... taunting me ... with familiar darkness;
this is my Bible of heartache.

I ache
and kiss,
her soft, flowery lips growing on the walls.
And her whispers behind my ear,
a tongue stirring leaves of misery;
I kiss,
to soothe,
my fragile spine breaking through the skin.

(Like Atlas I carry the world
it's burdens and failures
that I claim only as my own.)

My eyes reflect the light of angels
refuse them, like spiders in a tasteless river
pouring from my eyes.
The tree between my thighs,
withering,
to grow and breathe no longer necessary;
only in her gardens can I grow.

And only in her gardens ...
her glass gardens ...
the fruits of ironic love,
do I choose to die?