I used to look at him

with eyes that knew no pain.

His gaze, love,

basked my face

with sun light.

Flowers envied me.

Even when it rained,

I knew the sun would

eventually shine again,

be mine again

turn to a fine mist,

a dew,

then, I'd be dry again...

to smile again.

But, this time the rain came

with thunder it announced,

"This is a different day.".

I would not simply just merely

endure the rain, Love.

I would beg for a ray of sun

again ...

There's something about scythes

that intimidate,

without being held.

Believe me,

When it cuts,

it isn't just painful,

it's pain filled.

I was a stock flower.

Good. Happy. Smiling. Beaming.

The rain beat me,

thunder made my insides cringe,

and lightning struck me.

Again and again and a again.

Again. Again. Again.

If you have ever been cut, stabbed,

and mauled by a scythe,

You know the pain starts at a

nine or ten

and decreses to nothing.

Which was him:

Nothing. Nobody. No good.

He stabbed me, 'til

I lost count.

Bloodied mouth.

I inhaled and exhaled blood.

My blood. Him. Rain. Pain.

I no longer trust how the sun

makes me female ...

Flowers pity me ...

My eyes are filled with

distant pain ...

But, like all flowers,

I wait for my season

to come ...

And, I will rise again.