You celebrated me
when I was a flower,
but you denied my roots.
When autumn came,
you did not know
what to do about me.
You could only understand
the surface, not the
barnacled fabric in the soil.
Like an empty glass of water,
you drained your feelings
and
let
your
eyes
close.
What  you do not see
is the mud I am.
You want glitter and shine.
You want transparency.
You will not
acknowledge
the
depth
I
can
offer.
You hollered in glee
when I was shallow.
But you were
confused
with
how
to
treat me
when I was depth.

We are all like that.
Truth is bothersome.
It lacks plastic.
We are afraid.
Always afraid.

Pick up the umbrella
and cover the head.
Protect the surface
from the drops of reality.