What a cruel belief it is
that plucking daisies
would predict whether you
are loved by a certain someone
who may not know your name
(and doesn ́t even want to).

Because when the last petal
from the last daisy says no (again),
you will only be left with an empty field
of dead flowers since you forgot to water
the ones that weren’t white and yellow
and you murdered the ones that were.

Over the years, my stomach became
the grave of a thousand butterflies.
My ribcage filled with moths
craving the tiniest amount of light
they could possibly find in the dark.
So they are poking holes on my flesh
by feeding on my nerves, skin and veins.
And I let them do it.

Deep down I know they won’t stop
until I become one of them.
And deep down, I don’t mind.

Let my electric hands light up
Your incandescent body.

Head
to
toe.
Goosebumps on your skin.

We could blind the whole
New York City.

I want you to be here, next to me,
like the flowers that daintily grow
in the sand by the ocean.

I want you to be here, to cherish me
with your bright colours when I’m
nothing but grey stormy waters.

And I will be there, to soften the cold,
making sure you don’t ever lose
your petals with the January weather.

We could live an endless winter.

Once I felt warmth again,
fog revealed the messages
you had left on my window
(a few lies in crooked handwriting)
so I broke them with my bare hands
and now there's blood-stained snow
all over my living room.

Following the current trend
you'll probably like my best friend
but only for a weekend,
can we just play pretend?

I lost my mind
the moment I found yours.