Pens and Pages

I bite the bitter leaves Of the tree that grows in my backyard. I pick up the yellow ones, Dying and pretending to be Beautiful, Both. I hear her speak, In that familiar accent. She laughs aloud; A shrill pitch in her voice. Deep red lipstick on her lips. A little more flare in her hair. Her eyes beam as she talks. I look at myself, Then I look at her. I was more real With the leaves I hold on to. She plucks flowers From my backyard. I feel sorry Both for the flower And her. Fake, I called her once And made her cry. He called her beautiful. I looked at her again, And that made me cry.