In Springtime, He Withers

I slit my wrists amidst an endless garden.
Cherry blossoms flow, drained from my heart.
I give the ground life and as the blood hardens,
colors burgeon, they'll change when Earth takes me.

I never learned how to feel as thankful as I do
when death gives way to birth or a smile.
They say that blood is a melancholy blue
when it's kept inside, so please let it out to breathe.

Why shouldn't I feed the world that made me?
I like to tease the reaper with what he wants,
I want to give some of my life to set others' free;
I never learned how to stop or how to help myself.

I'll never grow up and I'll never hate the rain,
I've never said never or read a book about love..
If a snake had lips, would he grin after he'd slain?
I begin to tremble and turn a lovely snowy white.

He looms in the distance like an apprehensive cloud.
I know him because I fear him and what he knows.
With a band-aid I vanquish his hopes as if I'm allowed;
a scrawny blood-crusted sprout rises between my toes.

I don't know if I'll see tomorrow or the flower
I tried so hard to nurse with my tender mortality.
Like silence I never found with my imagined power,
death dies in springtime, like winter to a forest.