the prettiest thing about me is the way
i turn almost to dust, at the slightest touch;
i am undone and
the ghost of me weeps for the weakness of a heart so soft,
i’ll tell you that once, i was warrior and lioness
i smiled and the blood of those who would pity me glistened
between my tombstone teeth.
soft, now, i am, in the places i must be.
do not tread where my lion sleeps –
she stirs at the slightest bruising of this soft and brittle heart.