Poetry

You whispered "don't die" to me right before I closed my eyes to pretend to sleep. And maybe, baby doll, I'm being over dramatic, but I've been staring at your words for two days, trying to comprehend what they mean. All the petals wilted, and all we've got now are thorns.

And yes, I feel broken, but like Mother used to always tell us, brokeness is just a phase. We pass through it to get perfect. Only flaw in this process is that I'll never be perfect.

I feel hazy right now, sweets, 'cause that drug we call mistake keeps creeping around the corners of my brain and it hurts so much just to blink my eyes. There's pretty rivers down my cheeks, running black and muddy, chasing down the fears.

Funny how none of that just made sense.