And nurture you.
And love you.
And each year you stab me in the chest.
I treat you nice, like all my other garden children.
But you are my nasty child.
I wait and wait for your sprouts to emerge.
(Because you are hateful.)
(You sneaky little shit.)
And I water you and care for you. And your green tops look so pretty.
And then, when you are the right size, I thin you out so that you have ample room to grow.
And your green tops look frondy and luscious,
and make soft, loving promises.
You fill up the bed and smell so sweet.
You whisper, "I love you, too, Sweetie. Don't worry. I'm right here, growing for you. You'll be so happy, I promise."
Twerking in that soil, you grotesque little hussy.
WHY you gotta be spiteful that way?!
You distorted beast!
That is ... I can't even.
And sick beyond belief.
Each year I believe you.
And each year you say: