"If I were red vase, blown from glass" by Aiden Drake

I am sure I would not be beautiful, but maybe I would fit your hands And you could fill me up with flowers or whatever you wanted

If you filled enough, you wouldn’t need to look at the vase

Even a beautiful vase is as charming as the flowers

And I am sure: I would not be beautiful

Once you get tired of my unevenness

(I was not smoothly manufactured)

Once you get tired of my color and tired of my ugliness

(I am sure I would not be beautiful)

Would you please be sure —

After taking out your flowers to put them in another vase (Or one day realizing that the flowers were withered Because I am not warm soil and could not nourish them) Would you please be sure to take your hand

Your slender, porcelain white and softly radiant fingers And pick up my blood dark glass firmly in your grasp

But when moving away, let me tumble from your palm I want to split and rupture like firm skin yielding to your retraction

I want to shatter like a wine bottle pushed aside by careless action

I want to explode into beads of glass a ruby river on your floor

Or better, to become sand

I was never anything more

Particles or dust or ash

Still red, still glass, and no longer bound together

Is that still too much to ask?