The Green House
There are transparent tulips
that walk with me,
that crawl with me,
that line every wall I see.
If you aren’t looking,
you can’t find them.
But the stench
of their putrid, peeling flesh
can be smelled for
miles,
over both land and sea.
I live in a garden of invisible lilies,
whispering in my ear.
The things they say
fill me with fear.
It’s not pollen,
but spores
that fill my lungs.
The amoral flora
has filled my mind
with seeds.
Their roots dig into the crevices of my brain.
Their stems sprout through my eyes.
Their see-through flowers reach up
to the sky,
consuming and digesting all
of the light.
I am a greenhouse of ravenous roses,
that hunger for all they can see.
So please don’t open the door.
Don’t let me see the light.
For if you do,
this garden I made
will eat you alive.
Brady Mondry is a 19-year-old aspiring writer/filmmaker from Huntington, New York. For Brady, writing is a therapeutic process that helps him understand and process his emotions, and to use them as a force of creative good. He spends his time fearing things both real and imagined, and loving every second of it.