Morning

Today
I will begin by turning to the shuttered window,
I will stare at the sunbeam that filters through,
I will spit out the bitter taste of the nights before.
I will spit out the memories of all those
who laughed because I was not dead like them,
who shook their heads
and cried out of pity,
never mourning
that I could not live like them.
I will spit out the memory of those who watched me crouch
and hold out the pieces of my heart
and carelessly
callously
callowly
slapped the fragments from my outstretched hands.
I will not admit that a blind flower girl
can never see love in the eyes of a Tramp.
I will stoop
and gather up again the pile at my feet,
and I will pray the shards draw only a little blood
and that they're still large enough
to separate from the dust.
And I will rise.