TRAGIC Poem: Early Bloom, by Anna Melin

Imagine a garden.

Now, imagine a girl.
Her age is uncertain.
Her girlhood is, also.
Some still call her a child, others
stare at her like they do at women
who are ten years older.

She has always lived here,
and though it doesn’t feel like home exactly,
it doesn’t feel like hell, for sure —
more like a gentle cage, whose
golden gates one got used to.

Her name doesn’t matter.
Her age doesn’t either.
What matters is that pain,
in her stomach, the bitterness
that settled in her throat.

She lies there, on the grass.
She has been for hours.
She watches the trees above,
or the clouds, or nothing at all,
she just cannot find sleep,
nor break her own silence.

A man has lain with her,
just a few nights ago.
Or were those weeks,
or perhaps months?
Barely matters either.

What matters is:
he came and talked to her,
when she was the saddest,
took her to the rose garden.
He showed her the flowers,
he talked about colors, petals,
how rare their beauty is.

They stayed there for hours,
she still can’t remember
how it happened that they
ended up there, naked,
and she was in his arms,
but she still feels the taste
of salt in her mouth as he
was sleeping.