From my diary
It's the sun that worries me, seduces me with its heat
Like you do with your promises that we can do anything.
I believe you just as I believe summer will come
And kill the crocuses I have planted for you.
My knees are stretched taut, the skin on them shiny
As I sit with my legs tucked under me
Looking for rain in the wind-herded clouds.
I watch a green arm of the Meenachil
That flows so close to where my summer memories stay
And it reminds me that I have made promises to you
That I may never keep.
I am that sung-about woman who takes
As if it is her right.
Men will give me anything, I need only ask;
Including their hearts, which I'd rather not take.
I wasn't called butter fingers for nothing, growing up.