A mild violet with lavender skin
Grows tall and wild in September showers.
Invisibly bothersome, multiplying quietly.
Weeds! Behind an innocent face.
Too common for the parchment sketch-book
Too pretty for the Blade.

A spark catches a grass blade.
The flowers escape, but my sangria skin
A–blaze for the history books.
Fire! I smell the smoke and sigh, but the shower
is too late. Watch my laughing face
as I burn alive. Quietly.

I must confide quietly:
My thoughts always find the blade
in a–maze ment for flowers and weeds, I face-to-face 
The End! But I will not die as long as my heather skin
burns under the shower.
I tally the marks in a little book.

5’6, 118 lbs. the doctor writes in her book.
“Five pounds lighter,” she mutters quietly.
But my thighs still bear the weight of the shower.
W     I     D     E   !!!  Like the marks of the blade.
Like the ridges on my mallow skin.
Like the smile on my face.

Holding a weed to your face,
say you’re, “Picking flowers by the book.”
How could you see past my periwinkle skin?
Fuck! I even curse quietly.
My words would shame a blade
if I could scream louder than the shower.

I scarcely allow a shower
to escape the clouds, down my face.
Because weeds don’t fear drought, only the Blade.
FAKER! You think I’m reading off a book?
Screaming lines I’ve rehearsed quietly? 
Cut away. Will there be a smile beneath my indigo skin?

I fear the real flowers and tonight’s shower, the maze, and the last page of the book. 
Once in front of your FACE, these words don’t read quietly.
But still I go unnoticed. Still the blade. Still my skin.