When I am at the peak of my span
These petals open, blossoming,
You step on my face and tell me
I am who you see
Through your cataractal lenses
THAT is me, who I am supposed to be
With my name stripped away,
And that a flower’s life is destined
For sitting still and smiling
For prying fingers to uproot
Its body from the earth
Then to rot in a broken vase.