|Georgia O'Keefe, Black Iris, 1906|
from her secret garden,
was she softer on the outside,
or predestined to harden?
Beautiful and innocent in her personal hell.
Blooming in seasons through her broken shell.
Before he plucked the petals,
from her ambrosia bouquet,
was she sure to soar,
or always meant to decay?
Degraded and innocent, a false world in her head.
Better than praying that she was already dead.
Before he fed off of
the damage inside,
did her soul shine with pride
or did shame always reside?
Mending torn innocence, she stitches her seems,
Envisioning beauty and reclaiming her dreams.
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