I press flowers because I like it.
The thrill of thievery, of plucking irreplaceable beauty from those who can't see it anyway,
wild eyes daring passing cars to not slow down
for the girl holding flowers between her teeth.
And I ran and I thieved for a love of my own,
Until I began to press the life out of beauty, to preserve it for you.
I shook my bones until only pennies fell out.
I gave you everything, everything
and you said everything, and you meant nothing