As I sit beneath the blooming dogwood,

a breeze causes petals to fall,

pouring down like light pink rain,

and I feel like a geisha

caught beneath the branches

of cherry blossoms in spring.

-

I feel that you see too much of this

geisha idea of me--my

slow smiles and attentive eyes

being misinterpreted as interest

or, worse yet, love.

-

My face is a mask, made up

not of white paint and charcoal

but of soft whispers and gentle laughter,

my delight painted on--

ruby lips curled upwards

in such a way that they distract

from the dagger I hold in my hands.

-

It is possible to kill someone with a decorated fan, you know.

-

Geishas must never be allowed to love.