A flower does not simply die.
it is killed, by the very same thing that created it.
Soil. Though now, much less nutrient.
Its honestly quite ironic,
how the things that create you,
are also capable of destroying you,
like nothing.
I mention irony,
in terms of my mother,
whom is now using her bony fingers,
as knitting needles,
to bind my eyelashes together,
as if to blind me from the obvious.
She wasn't meant to be a mother.
No, definitely not a mother.
maybe a toddler,
whom spends her days nursing a bottle,
and then occasionally falling,
flat on her face,
whether its up the street,
or down the stairs,
her face has to leave blood stains somewhere.
She was meant to be alone.
Alone, so she couldn't,
**** the life out of anything that came near,
like she decided she would do to any ***** bottle,
that crossed her path,
dumping me on a road to destruction as she went,
and never came back to save me from myself.
Honestly, I don't know what she could've been.
I just know she gave up everything,
for a bottle and a good time.
shes the flower that sprouted early,
and died in the cold.