In this blanket of Queen Anne lace I lay.
Kindly hidden among things much sweeter,
Than I could have ever wondered of.
Your porcelain face,
Your painted on expressions,
Cannot soothe these reservations.
Yet, my pulse still thumps,
My fingers still tap, tap, and tap away.
Like dime sized hail on a windshield.
In the spring that never came,
The winter made herself at home in the trees,
In the nest of the Robins who were tricked into thinking otherwise.
The cold greeted them only to kill their babies.
Whose crooning would never resonate up into the air above me.
Never open their wings to fly.
Instead they lay cold in their shells,
Colored the softest pastel blue.
Just like your painted on eyes.
They, too, leave me cold and unfeeling.
As the world begins to bloom around me,
Around what I once was.
I yearn to smell the lilacs.
To feel the tiniest of paper cuts.
And watch as my finger bleeds.
Yet, instead, you have buried me amongst weeds.
A wild plant, given a beautiful name,
Only to tidy up their harshness.