Flowering Flames

Hell is subjective.
Hell is personally tailored, fit like a black suit.
You wear that suit to your own funeral,
It fits you well.
Who on Earth is to know where hell is?
All mortals find it underground,
But diamonds are found underground
You don’t find the abandoned souls underground
They warn of their forgiving God
Their God of Love
Who won't forgive you for loving.
I realized hell could be on Earth.
When I was young, I held a flower of an unreal color,
I thought nothing of it, for it was too small to see,
But when it grew, I saw others blooming, and I thought mine to be ugly
I hid this flower in my pocket,
Suffocating it of sun,
And as my flower died I began to as well
Throwing it into the fire would’ve been merciful,
At that point I was in hell,
No promised fire would scare me then,
I had found it already and I was burning at the root
I begged for my father to cut the smoldering flower up,
Shred it, but give me a new one
“You have an endless garden!”
I cried
“Give me just one different flower, you can, why don’t you?’
He never did, and I grew to resent my father.
Forget about love,
Though you beg,
Father reserves love for the pink and purple flowers,
The red and even the blue,
Not to the green.
Why, foolish self, did you expose yourself to hell
If you knew that you would never love like you chose?
No one else was in your living hell.
I couldn’t cut my own flower, I feared it,
It was attached to me and already killing me.
But, my tears watered the flower
It outgrew my pocket and became obvious, soaking all of the sun
The flower nursed me back to health
Like Jonah’s shading plant,
My soul was replenished by it.
My flower grows still,
Vining into others hearts, my father’s life breathing through it,
I could save the wilted ones,
The dry, thirsty, dying ones.
When their throats dried, I filled them with water and let them speak again.
I cannot save the cut flowers,
But flowers are alive, and grow like sirens.
Still, when the flowers are cut,
Beheaded in an instant,
A piece of my vine is broken
I cry in pain and I beg my Father for it to stop.
It will never stop.
I feel every death and birth, I see it all and I remember it.
It has been so long, but I remember every denial
My father told me they would say
“I do not know you”
But I never believed him
He was right.
Flowers have no eyes, only ears,
But they never want to listen.
They insist that they see,
And what they see must be right.