Cut Stems

The young flowers bloom

But I shrivel in the heat—

Scorching blossoms,

Not from the rays of the sun,

But from the untrust that

Burns under my skin.

Will I be anything but a small

Seed? A piece of grass?

An acorn chewed, buried, and


It's okay if I'm never a watered

Bouquet—happiest in a vase—

Unaware of death claiming

Cut stems.