I wept and you just stood there
watching me
eat my own heart.
It tasted sweeter
than blueberry pie
in the Summer.
But this isn’t about me.
It’s about you.
How you wound yourself up
and set yourself on a shelf
for display. How you eat
from ceramic bowls
with a wooden spoon and spin
tales of the miraculous healing
leaves of nature. How you lift veils,
unlock safes, find treasure in the clouds
even when there’s no ex
to mark the spot.
You are no ordinary rosebud,
you devious rosebud,
you do not stand there looking pretty
in the midst of beauty.
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