“This dying flower only feels alive by getting hurt. Your soiled dress hugs your body and it’s evident you’re dying of thirst. Your fingers coil like petals betraying the sun and you know the only way the plot can thicken is by adding dirt.”
Cry and you’ll drink, cry and you’ll drink. I remember saying this to your melting face. I know what you wanted and you knew it too. I slapped your petals away from your outreach, I’m not your sun, I’m more like bleach. I’ll take all your beautiful colors away, but drink me and I’ll give you one back, the coldest tone of gray. Do you still want that taste? Do you still want to stay? I’ll tell you a secret, you’re just another dead flower in my dead bouquet.
