If you follow a certain path from the back door of my house, there is a secret garden. That’s where I hide, while I wait for you to find me.
At night when the moonlight is enough for me to see, I burry my feelings there, the ones I don’t want anyone to know about. The overwhelming ones and the embarrassing ones, the ones I fear might take over any kind of control I’ve managed to gain over myself through the years. Sometimes in front of them, it feels like all that work would melt to the ground like a big, strong tower made of stone, collapsing to the ground in a million tiny pieces. Scary. Right?
From those feelings I burry, grow flowers and trees. I water them and I talk to them and sometimes they become taller than I am and I hide behind them. I lay on that garden on the quiet Sundays and on nights when my mind is too loud. And those nights, I wait for you.
Once the morning comes and there’s sunlight, I regret it. Because my garden might look beautiful to me but who knows what you’d think if you saw all this? So I keep it hidden to protect it and only wear some flowers in my hair on days when I feel lonely.
My garden is only mine and I might be too scared to show it to anyone, but if you work hard enough to find the way there, I might just let you in.