And when all of you are tucked in,
asleep soundly in your beds.
The comforter I'd sewn,
keeping you safe like I promised,
I'll shut the door
and close my eyes to weep too.

how far will I grow
when I am only fed the scraps
their rough knuckles
my ever yielding petals
how many bouquets must I give
before my leaves finally wither
my stems shrivel
and my heart and roots grow still and cold
will I too be knarled and twisted
like the trunks above had foretold
I am running out of petals
and now the air is cold and tastes like metal

I've filled my bottle with empty promises
drunk off their sweet lies, bitter after kisses
my blood is wine, and it spills with every tremble
when it rolls out of my hand, jagged pieces littering the cold tile
will I finally see a reflection of my soul
in the glass that I break and the fire in my lungs
with no sun I grow crooked,
to fall in love with myself would be ideal
but even she hates me.