Dried flowers in the hot sun
Butterflies bending to the breeze
You’re always watching under a tree
Books of poetry that make up your anatomy

You’re skin is pavements and the world walks over you
Christening you the windows to the words of an angel
Arcadia of the saints willing to be martyrs
For love letters that are epiphany each time you speak

A canvas for the artist who controls you
A hole of earthly reproduction
But you’re not a ethereal being
You’re just a girl born sad and alive
You’re the binaries and boundaries of birth