Just along the center of the breaking, where the first crack was licked dirty, and the rest would spread like seeds planting new ones to take root, there is a bloom. You have not seen it yet, but you will. Just behind the glaze, left like a screen door slamming your eyes shut with tears, you’ve been on your knees far too long. Feeding the wounds, taking note of how to keep each one alive to save your life, but it’s time to let them die. You need to lay each one to rest to make room for the new blooms. Forget the wounds, doused in pain. They are all withered and half dead anyway. You feed them your tears, cover them in time, but each one sprouts a scar and your knees are covered in blood. Get up. That’s not your garden anymore. Your garden is so much more than that. Start digging it up. It has words and laughter, hope and dignity. It has your whole heart with all of your light. It has the version of you that you have not met yet. And she’s smiling. Take a shovel, love. Go find the garden where you are waiting to bloom.