Between Bruises & Blooms

Funny,
how ghosts never knock.

They just find the window,
press their palms against the glass,
and call it curiosity.

I wonder what you came looking for—
a confession,
a villain,
proof that the story
you were handed
still fits neatly in your mouth.

Careful.

Poetry has teeth.

And some gardens
only look beautiful
because you cannot see
what was buried beneath them.

You may read every word
I have ever bled onto a page
and still never know
which ones belong to you.

But if something stings—

perhaps
you recognized the thorn.