Juliet and Juliet

It’s expected of me to have pink nail polish,
a frilly dress for prom night,
shiny dance shoes to tap my feet,
lip gloss and cherry chapstick,
long flowing hair, carefully brushed,
a ring on my slim finger
from a man who loves me,
an umbrella for every occasion,
a long and expensive coat
for my long and expensive travels,
two lips like pilgrims,
as Shakespeare poetically put it,
parting with sweetness,
grazing masculine fields,
kissing the bending reeds,
but my fields are luscious with something
apart from the reeds and blue violets.
My fields are cluttered with red roses,
sweetly scented and blooming beautifully,
blonde lilies with tongues of grace,
a Fibonacci sequence of color,
spiralling beneath my feet,
stemming from the packed soil of the earth,
and my dress is raven feathers,
blowing with the breeze.
My nails are black with shine,
My feet are bare and beaten by rocks,
but the scars fade against the grass.
My lips are the color of my heart
and I can run my fingers through my hair,
feel its tips against my neck,
as it tries to fly with the geese soaring south.
Not a ring to bind my spirit,
or a man to love me,
or an umbrella for the oncoming rain,
or a long and expensive coat
for my long and expensive travels,
for my lips are two pilgrims,
as Shakespeare would say,
and like butterflies, they kiss and kiss
only a certain species of flower.
A crown to comfort my head,
a woman to love me,
skin to feel the oncoming rain,
and a cheap glass of brandy,
for my excitingly cheap travels,
everything that I desire in this world.
I cannot kiss the blue violets
like Romeo and Juliet.
I can only stand in my black dresses
and painted nails
and chopped short hair
and black lipstick,
waiting to be a Romeo
for another Juliet.