The Gardener...

You let her stargaze up, dreaming of the possibilities, you let her speak her late-night thoughts, tellings of the creativity, you let her sprint in the streets at dusk, feeling the freedom - you helped her live, astronomer. But morning came. You dislocated her jaw so she stopped her whining, you put soil down her throat to suffocate the joy, you planted flowers so she'd look pretty - you ruined her, gardener. Painted nails chipping, lipstick smudging, mascara stayed. Because she's always fine; she always has to be. Always appearances, isn't it, beautician? Stick ten needles in her arms, the blood is frozen venom, hit her thrice, she'll be numb-er than that night in September… You can't save her, doctor. Why'd you do it? So she'd feel as you do? You're sick so she must be too? Cry so she must cry too? You know its not fair but your apathy drained - like the blood from her wrists that night you got that phone call. Goodbye gardener. The beauticians are liars; she just wanted the sky, and all the doctors could do was cry.