i have a garden on my skin

my skin grows flowers. 
my mind sheds tears to keep them alive. 
my eyes are the sun, my gaze lighting up my skin. 
i am told to keep my flowers away. 
i am told to mow up the green that sprouts from my arms. 
i am told that not to do so is rude. 
i’ve always wondered why people would cross their arms and stare when they see these flowers. 
after all, i grew them myself. 
they formed without me making them. 
but still, people try to dig up my petals, but i am blinded by the pollen. 
if i am not supposed to have these magnificent flowers taking root on my body,
then why does it grow? 
why do i not even have to try to have thousands of flowers grow on me? 
i am more than what my skin grows,
yet the eyes of others choose to isolate what they want to judge most. 
and i will never understand that.