Wilted Echoes

Opened the doors wide, To the soft morning light, And the grey windows too, For the morning breeze. Love alone, we thought, Will teach them the 'hows' To pat-hug with gentle care, While holding them dear. Let it slide and slip away, we told our silly selves— let the slimy words go, Numb the heavy hands. Turn a little deaf today, To all the bruising noise, Turn a little blind again, To the subtle glaring eyes. Because we believed we were truly loving them, Because we believed we cherished them alone. If poured long enough, Love would soften them. If patted with patience, Their edges would smooth. But love without fences, Is like a garden left bare, Trampled by ugly, dirty feet, Dragged in by our hands. Allowing comfort to breed, Nothing but sour contempt, Saying, "It's fine, my dear," When it really, really hurts. Carving cornered holes, Where resentment blooms, Not toward the dirty hands, But the pitiful mirrored self. The self that stayed cold, When it needed to spark. The self that stayed mute, When it needed to roar.