Tenderly,

Shoulders curved, neck arched

Over the glistening surface of a toilet bowl

Like a lily of the valley,

Your silent blossom,

Silent wilting.

Where are the others?

You suppose it's not the season;

Something must be wrong with you.

Nectar spills from your irises.

He takes his pick,

Tells you how sweet you are.

It soaks in;

For a moment he softens.

He is in love

With your body.

The bruises on your petals say otherwise but surely

He did not mean it.

You want only to be wanted so

Go, trim your thorns,

Keep your body dainty for his

Man-hands.

Your mother said

We would not like your brittle leaves,

So you learnt succulence,

Sweetness and mouldability.

If your father were there,

He would not have corrected her.

After all, it was only from your birth

That she became undesirable.

When you look at your boy,

Be reminded that he is not yours

So far as you are his.

That boy is a product

Of a factory that churns out combat boots

Like the only thing worth selling

And you crumble beneath them,

Pressed into the earth.

Won't you lift your head up

From the bathroom tiles?

Won't you keep your guts this time?

Realise his glow is machine-fuelled

And grow towards something brighter?

Go, face the sunlight.

Cling to my walls if you need it.

I say this as a friend and

Not as a man:

You are not his to uproot.

~~~

(Started with the prompt in mind but did slightly deviate from the 'tragic' message in the end)