(Beyond the garden, a white-lit corridor hums.
Chairs line the walls in perfect rows.
They are already seated when I enter.)
_______________________________________________________________________________
The recovery room is where they wait
— somewhat awake.
These women misinterpret my posts
And instill huge egos.
These women have toxic mothers,
Worms that infect the daughters.
.
Pesticides still pump within the blood line,
These women barely chime;
They're dim and lethargic
Like a baby who's been fed tonic:
No warmth or magic.
.
These trauma-bonded wanderers
haven't recovered.
They make snide remarks
And send their flying monkeys to hunt
Because I'm not fun.
.
They misinterpret posts
And are no longer invisible ghosts.
They are cadavers
and hold the yellow roses,
invoking and coasting
Instead of scrolling.
.
They send paragraphs because they hate
that I've left the wake.
They project their opinions as true,
And anyone who disagrees?
Here come the flying monkeys.
.
The cult is a game
that the traumatized play;
And they slander those who are not them,
Because they know nothing else
Besides pampering the leaves
That made them weak.
.
I'm under their skin,
Nothing they do will dehydrate my ends.
.
I'm under their stem,
I refuse the yellow roses
that the dead bodies hand.
I was young and broke free,
No more roses stink up my profound imagery.
.
These women are still attached
Like babies on their mother's backs.
They're always right
And I'm wrong,
Remember that before their flying monkeys come.
.
The cadavers hand them yellow roses,
They are thanked as no one supposes.
The women hold the decayed force,
Unaware they follow its course.
.
Their sepals are decaying
Their meadows are sharing
The decomposition that their mothers made,
and will not stop its death cycle accolade.
.
Now, the recovery room is blackened
Sepals are forgotten
They never became their own person
Just the extension of a woman
who hates individual motion.
.
They never became an individual person
That's why the recovery room hasn't spoken
Because they're the extension
Of women who hate tension.
.
The extension of her skin,
makes you rot,
However, it makes me hot,
and I climb to the top,
running from the hell that is the pot.