forsythia

and tetrad petals are words—
written on my branches,
poetry i write on rainy days
    each burst of amber blossom,
    a sad metaphor—
flowers break when i hear
“you used to be so talented”
    falling behind
until i am barren like
old winters—old friends
are in the forest i reside
    but they are all butterflies
    whose wings are torn and broken,
i am still here, yearning for a film
of the past that’s long gone,
but it’s what they want from me,
    i’m still not that kind of beautiful, blooming
    i’m still failing, still breaking down into nothing
            but at least i’m not crying,
            at least my branches aren’t breaking,
            i was blindingly gold, tarnished into silver.
i am forsythia, and life was my early apricity,
but now i see it’s an artifice,
a poison that only kills my roots
hear my lament.