STEP ONE: Dismantle the flower monarchy.
Make it a bloody, brutal thing, a sandstorm of petals to debris.
Let no soil be left unturned,
no grass be left uncrushed,
no stems be left unplucked.
The garden is not a garden, the garden is a battlefield—
do not be fooled by the scent of lavender
or the taste of olive
for it is rotten.
It is a vicious place.
No matter what, strike first.
STEP TWO: Bathe in the oil of your enemies.
Luxuriate in the swansong, the
fresh cut aromatic distress, a final
call to a savior who will not exist.
Breathe deep in this small victory
as if it is your last.
STEP THREE:
Twist and twist and retwist.
(This is what it takes to achieve.)
As green bleeds deep into your fingers and palms,
hear its loathsome
bright
cry. Green is the weakest color. Remember that.
STEP FOUR: Repent.
STEP FIVE: Lock like and unlike together.
Bring them so close, so intertwined in
mind and
body and
stature, that
one does not exist without the other.
STEP SIX: At long last—
witness the flower crown.