six feet deep
you have buried me ,
and i bang on the coffin door—

the
little bees outside make honey
while i just try to breathe .
.
.

one day, this grass will grow quite tall,
and i will soak my
aching feet ,

who was it,
                    who told you to hurt me?

who is it, that wants me to
die?

these roses are so beautiful, yet
all of them have
thorns.