You’re digging up the garden of you in my head
and taking out the stained sheets for the bed.
I fear the weeds that you could plant again
the thorn that may prick and leave a new stain.
How can I sleep in the bed where you buried sin,
yours and mine, in that game I couldn’t win?
You’re ripping up the bushes or roses and thyme
their sweet aroma of what once I called mine.
I had hoped in this a place that I could put you to rest
but you come with spades to dig up graves once blessed.
You seek the coffins that I hid away in my heart
to redefine magic that you made a dark art.
So you look through the drawers to find the sheet
where you played out the last of your deceit
like a puppet show with shadows, so softly it played
then you left everything here and slowly it decayed.
It took me years to let something new start to grow
to remove those sheets from the bed and hide them below.
And all I have tried to sow, you have moved in to reap
digging up things that are not yours to keep.