To Be a Flower

By Guinevere Freeman

The boys are enamored

Tis hard to find a person like me

They fall for my sharp edges, my difference

They see she has stammered

They scoff, marveling at what they see

In me, they think I am their deliverance 

Adorned in gold and grief,

They run their fingers ‘cross jagged edges

But they grow to hate the sting, loathe the blood drawn

Repeled, they want relief

Horror, their love a blade possesses 

Their young, naive, fascination is now gone

Tis self preservation 

They are playing with a pretty knife

And pretty knives have a sharp, deadly, essence

They end this relation

A knife does not make a precious wife.

Knife I am, I cannot resign to quiescence

Used against enemies 

Knives are never protected, they’re wielded

A knife, does long to be a precious flower

By Guinevere Freeman