Some girls are lillys
waiting to be picked
some are roses
with one too many thorns
so you can't
even
touch them.

This is an open letter to all of those who don't understand what it means to be tortured by the very person you love
Dear Whoever You Are,
Humans get a sort of deranged pleasure in loving something that kills them. You see darling, each time i run back to him he sweeps me up in his arms and dips me in the forest we once knew so well in the small glow of the burnt out street lamps and sips up all my happiness just to leave my hollow bones and make the moon my perfect company. You see, it still troubles my vacant mind why I always charge back to him but i do it anyway and that, is the most agonizing part about loving someone who kills you.

As i sit back and watch the openly wounded come back from the war of speaking to you, it makes the burning hunger in my heart more passionately unbearable. For a fleeting instant I was your's, and, for an even briefer moment you were mine. But you had an unendurable curious spirit that even i couldn't manage to capture the attention of for more than a rapid second. And that was tiringly back-breaking, so I stopped striving to be that one singular girl whom you kept around for a time. I stopped glancing around to survey if you were around when i was about to do something noteworthy. I stopped trying to keep the conversation going if it was veering towards a dead-end. I even stopped wearing my hair precisely the way you like it. But that undoubtedly didn't mean I still didn't thirst for your presence. That didn't mean I could deliberate with you about the very person i loved. In as much as, as laborious as this was to confess to you, I am still insanely in love with you.