I've told people not to let others
plant flowers inside them,
for they will leave,
and all the loveliness inside them
will wither and die

I've said it as if
it's the simplest thing in the world.

But clearly, it isn't.

And you don't get to choose
who will do it,
when they will,
or whether they will.
You won't feel it when they finally do.

One day you'll wake up
with a garden blooming inside you

until they leave,
and you've got nothing
but tears to water what they've left.

White paint peels off to leave the walls bare,
naked and exposed to
elements.
Much like her soul.
Starved of love and affection,
accepted but not wanted.
Tolerated.
The sun casts her shadows on those
she frowns upon,
leaving winding roads to spiral out of control.
Time shifts her world from
it's axis as it progresses,
it doesn't heal,
it doesn't lessen,
It just is.
Echoes of your voice ricochets
to find her heart,
carrying the exact weight they
did the second they fled your tongue,
never shedding an ounce of momentum

"The waves of pain
that had only lapped at her
before now
reared up high and pulled her under .."