Deserving (as Defined by the Disordered)

You are not ready
for the storm.
When you are ready
you will be watered.
Until then, weep
with the wilted arc of your body,
and if you must
die for love.

If the storm does not come
to quench your thirst,
to supply your eyes,
to caress your cheeks in streaks;
or if the storm comes
and your stem,
forgetting how to swallow,
bows further under the weight
and simply breaks

then you may rest
assured that, at the least,
someone's hands
will hide your body
from further shame
in a pocket of dirt
when you cannot
hide yourself,
being (a bit too late) gone.