I can't blame you for taking something airy,
so fairy, light and irresistible to destroy
because that's what foolish men do, they grip
these things so tightly in their hungry fingers
and squeeze it into a tight, hard stone
and then they open their hands
and let it drop.
I blame myself for lying still, dirty and small
and allowing the ground to become my bed,
the rain to become a comfort, and the feet
of all the men following behind you
to pound me into a well-traveled road,
when I was meant to stir trees
and scatter dandelion seeds.
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Submission Name: Where the Blame Lies
