I always thought of spring as a new beginning;
the start of something new or
the rebirthing of the fallen,
like flowers in bloom after the dead, cold winter
It's what you've always wanted—those cold
winter months are nothing but a buffer to you
and I, the unwitting victim, thought I could
ever be enough for you
But I'm no flower, I'm no spring
I'm not a beginning or a rebirth—
I am death, I am winter
I am the end and the endless void
I'm the buffer you only ever wanted to cling to
until the cold subsides, until you can
come back to your old life—
in my wake, there won't be a drop of tear
Nov 1, 2020
Nov 1, 2020 at 11:34 PM UTC
I always thought of spring as a new beginning;
the start of something new or
the rebirthing of the fallen,
like flowers in bloom after the dead, cold winter
It's what you've always wanted—those cold
winter months are nothing but a buffer to you
and I, the unwitting victim, thought I could
ever be enough for you
But I'm no flower, I'm no spring
I'm not a beginning or a rebirth—
I am death, I am winter
I am the end and the endless void
I'm the buffer you only ever wanted to cling to
until the cold subsides, until you can
come back to your old life—
in my wake, there won't be a drop of tear
