I live in a wondrous home in the country side, the house is build out of black wood and black bricks the house has been eaten by over grown foliage and rich colourful flowers, I live alone confining myself to these walls, in the house lingers nostalgia and a crouped comfort, of memory that hold precious places in my heart, and horrifying story's in my head.

Every day I am greeted by an alluring dove, she flies around my home every day, she's been flying around this home since it was constructed.

She was flying five years ago, she's still flying, she's flying around right now.

Every time she flies through my home she leaves blood stains, she leaves scares, the blood washes away and I can forget, however the scares never heal, and the memory traps itself in the house lingering forever, but she cares for me, she loves me, didn't you ask for this, didn't you want this, didn't you want to be loved, didn't you ask for it, didn't you ask for it, didn't you ask for it.

Loving her is loving all of her, loving what she did to you, loving what she still dose to you, and loving what she is doing right now.

She built the house, she locked the doors and left one window for her to come and go as she pleases, she covered the house in flowers to blind you from the ugly hiding under it, she trapped me in this place, this imaginary word where she can control every move I make, im her hostage.

I used to admire the dove, her elegance was irresistible and I was unsighted and stupid, I was utterly convinced this was love, she cared for me, she restricted me, she caged me, isn't that what love is doing anything to protect even if that means being locked away for eternity.

In the end its easy to be tricked into thinking your in love, especially if no one has ever loved you before, learn from my mistakes, the damage is already done, the dove won.

Today the dove entered my home once again, and finally the moulded window closes, but the dove dose not leave any blood and dose not cause any scares, she just landed on the arm rest of the black rocking chair in my bed room.

I stab the dove with a wood chip out of the black walls that she built, black blood gushes from the wound, and the house goes up in flames, the black bricks crumble and the black wood burns into Ashe, the flowers surrounding the house melted away, after all the chaos was over and the house was nothing but a faded memory, the birds begin to sing and real flowers and trees sprout from the ground and begin to grow

and im free.