He’ll come to me scarred, frayed, and severed in splinters,
trembling as small strips of his skin fall to the floor.

“Again?” I’ll ask, wiping the blood from his cheek.
He will not speak, but his pleading stare is all I need.

I never understand what calls him back to her, each time worse than the last.
But I’ll admit, his dependence is what I want.

With hoe and shovel I’ll tend to him,
dethatching and mulching his tender limbs.

His blood will be dull and darkened in a hard freeze, needing to be replenished.
Though I could never compare to his ichor, I’ll give all I have.

While his veins melt back into nourishing streams,
I’ll delicately trace the soil of his flesh, dirt clumping beneath my nails.

The flowers on his skin will be withered and ripped
So, I’ll pluck tears from my eyes to water them.

Color will slowly etch across his petals once more,
his veins intertwining with bursting blossoms, rose mallows, and rhododendrons.

I’ll comb my hands through his crumbling strands of hair,
breathing more difficult as my blood and tears seep into his roots.

The thin wisps between my fingers will swell suddenly with growth,
flourishing outward in locks of silken brown.

His murky gaze — so devoid of life and feeling — will start to clear,
like clouds parting in the night to reveal the radiance of the stars.

My grip will hold him tight when he presses himself against me,
hoping to keep him tethered in place.

He never lingers long,
unlike the warmth of his touch.

Perhaps this is all that I am good for -
to fix beautiful, broken boys.

Giving myself to greater gardens.

Even if I become too barren to bloom.

Brian "Brie" Sheridan is a writer existing along the West Coast. In their free time, they enjoy listening to 80's synthpop, drag, and attempting to become Stevie Nicks' protégé. You can find the rest of his work at www.briesheridan.com