Gartenherz

I  don't know when you did it, probably one night when I was fast asleep, but you brushed your fingers across my breast, caressing every inch of me, until you found the seam running across me. You traced the seam with your fingers until you found the ends of the ribbon holding me together. Gently, you unlaced my chest and opened me up, ribs splaying outwards like claws grabbing at the air. Before you my red heart pumped life through me and all my existence lay there for you to discover and understand. Of course your curiosity got the better of you so you unlatched my heart and opened it up and saw all my fears, and dreams, and secrets neatly laid out in labeled drawers and you opened each drawer and read each fear and dream and secret then you meticulously folded each one and placed them back in the drawers and shut each drawer but not before adding a few fears, dreams, and secrets of your own. Then you unlaced your own chest, reached into your own heart, and pulled out a seed. You dug a little hole in the dirt floor of my heart and dropped the seed in. You patted the dirt back over the seed, closed my heart and latched it shut, then replaced my ribs, one by one. You folded my skin back over my body and, with jet black ribbon, laced me back together. Every day you must water that seedling because I've felt it growing. It pushes at my chest and it feels tight and cramped with how big that little seedling has gotten. Right now, laying in your arms, your fingers tracing small designs on my back, I think it just burst into full bloom because everything feels so beautiful and right. And all I can do is thank you for planting a garden in my heart even after you saw everything I was made of.