Pretty as a Flower
I’m a frail little plant
eager to grow in the sunlight
of the world’s affection.
But every day is winter,
and who am I
when I’m not blooming?
This itch to be pruned,
and admired at all costs,
is the damn drought of my life.
I should straighten
my stem and let them
rip me from my roots —
shrug my shoulders
and rot from the inside out
What woman isn’t a little
half dead? We’re all
delicate and barely
breathing.
Such a pretty little blooms.
Such gentle little
things.