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.