Easy

Do I make it look easy?

I must apologize, for that

was never my intent.

There’s nothing easy

about any of it; why can’t

anyone see me bleeding,

see how tortured

I am?

I see them in their

summer dresses,

casting the imperfect

blossoms on the ground,

rejecting them

as not good enough

to sit in a stupid vase

engraved with stories

they don’t understand,

these silly girls

crying about not being women.

Fools, the lot,

coveting heartache,

playing at knowing

what desire is,

Dancing with their arms and legs,

hips ignoring the bass line,

as if real music

lives anywhere else.

Tiny crimson droplets

on dainty silken things

while we weep and bleed rivers.