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