The Fig Tree is Dead by Kate G.

Pangs of heart and bodily weakness,

she throws off herself,

that self she knew to be false,

ugly, or plain stupid,

she throws it away 

and leaps into the dark.

No matter the fault

in her stars or in her self,

the night sky is heavy, the fig tree is dead.

She takes off the dress that does not fit.

Naked, there is nothing left to throw away.

No figs left, no unknown to pick.

Berry stained hands and a white dress,

the mistake is an art piece,

fingerprints dye that which does not fit.