I am unable to rebuild myself in your eyes
as anything other than a deep fault line
or border or armistice smashed
against the walls of a family home.
Your buffer zone of bad blood and holy water
running silently through me
splitting each of my seams.
I shelter the wounds
in which I have learnt to grow flowers.
I hope I am not the place you will go
to pluck the ones to adorn your dead.