GARLIC

Sitting in the garlic cutting off the heads,
smiling at the barn roof, wishing I was dead.
Sometimes it wants to grab me in its dead embrace
and rip my living flesh off and stuff it in someplace.

Living my last life in this land I will forget,
yet smiling away my last chance to forgive this regret.
I don't want to come back, this land that killed me 
and if I were to pay it back what help would it be?

Garlic smells like sunshine when you smell it for the last time,
and home is so much closer to you in your suitcase.
Skies are bluer here, yet overhang with fears,
that if you don't leave now there won't be a next time.

Sitting in my first life for the last time.
Sitting next to dying for the last time.
Crying in the garlic for the first time.