You had her listening for the whispers of the wind,
forced her to learn a language that her tongue couldn’t quite click,
offered her bones & blood,
a garden of dead things;
when all she wanted was a bouquet of gardenias.
You never should have told her how many of your teardrops supplemented the tides
or how deep the iceberg of your scars went.
Never should have revealed how steep a mountain the shame heaped,
or told her how you’ve hidden all that earth beneath your candlelight.
Maybe you should have only shown her how you’ve spread your smile across all that ugliness.
Maybe then the friendship you had to offer would have been less broken.