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.

You forget my name
I’ll say it, spell it out, write it down
Repeat that same two-syllable word
You’re quick to forget
Flowers are pretty little things
And all their names must blur together
For you, who cannot speak their language

Take her body, squander her soul.
**** her mind, remove her control.
Take her eyes, so she cannot see.
Take her voice so she cannot speak.
Burn what little hope she has.
Take her peace, they'll remember her as: crazy, chaotic, ******, pyschotic, foreign, and mystic...
Despite how she fought it.

Corrupt her memories, pervert her art.
Take all she has left, and rip it apart.

When she's gone, tell the world how you loved her, but not how you hated, berated and destroyed her.