Things You Press

Look at me now, so pretty

and so bright. Nevermind
that I am brittle, a jaded girl
with skin soft to look at
but so dry it crumbles at your touch.

I am no shy little violet, no baby
rose or easy, silken butterfly.

I'm a girl trapped inside
a gift from you, an emptiness
that wraps itself around me like cellophane.

I'm not an Easter lily, or a daisy
for that matter. This is to you, my dark singer, carrier of evenings and moonlight and art. You did this to me; you made me frail.
You spread your suffocation on my body.
You made me into someone else.

You folded me into a book
and put me on a shelf.