Your memory melts over my mind. Trapping it. It starts in casing my body like warm, sticky Amber. Preserving you for a lifetime. Suffocating me in a hateful bliss. I am stuck, wanting more of you. A mosquito drinks blood to survive. I want to drink all of you. I do not fear the Amber dripping into every pore. I do not try to run from it. Alike to a dying rose, I am happy dying, I know how the sun feels, the warmth on my petals, and the praise it has sung to me. It gave me what I needed to grow. For I cannot be mad at the sun for leaving. It did all it could do. Even as a lie here, decomposing. Worms creating holes in my thorny heart, I can die happily. For I know how the sun feels. I knew the dangers it brought. I knew if I flew too close to the sun, like a balloon cut loose. I would be more than just burnt. I would be scolded. Blisters of “what ifs” and “whys” covering my skin like a bad tattoo. I am to believe it is the most pain that could be felt, but yet I do not cry out in pain. I only cry out in longing. I knew the sun would set one day, and I knew it would never rise again. I lay in my own dug grave, I shiver. The dirt is ice cold without the sun. I grasp a single rose in my icy hands. Thorns cutting them, but I do not let go. I do not want to let go, even if it makes them bleed. The blood slowly trickling down, will only remind me of the warmth once felt. A feeling that I never want to forget. I look up at the stars dancing. Dirt inclosing on me. Burying me alive. Even as I suffocate, memories dance in front of my eyes, just like the stars. I cannot help but smile. For you were the one wielding the shovel.
Sep 3, 2024
Sep 3, 2024 at 11:40 AM UTC
Your memory melts over my mind. Trapping it. It starts in casing my body like warm, sticky Amber. Preserving you for a lifetime. Suffocating me in a hateful bliss. I am stuck, wanting more of you. A mosquito drinks blood to survive. I want to drink all of you. I do not fear the Amber dripping into every pore. I do not try to run from it. Alike to a dying rose, I am happy dying, I know how the sun feels, the warmth on my petals, and the praise it has sung to me. It gave me what I needed to grow. For I cannot be mad at the sun for leaving. It did all it could do. Even as a lie here, decomposing. Worms creating holes in my thorny heart, I can die happily. For I know how the sun feels. I knew the dangers it brought. I knew if I flew too close to the sun, like a balloon cut loose. I would be more than just burnt. I would be scolded. Blisters of “what ifs” and “whys” covering my skin like a bad tattoo. I am to believe it is the most pain that could be felt, but yet I do not cry out in pain. I only cry out in longing. I knew the sun would set one day, and I knew it would never rise again. I lay in my own dug grave, I shiver. The dirt is ice cold without the sun. I grasp a single rose in my icy hands. Thorns cutting them, but I do not let go. I do not want to let go, even if it makes them bleed. The blood slowly trickling down, will only remind me of the warmth once felt. A feeling that I never want to forget. I look up at the stars dancing. Dirt inclosing on me. Burying me alive. Even as I suffocate, memories dance in front of my eyes, just like the stars. I cannot help but smile. For you were the one wielding the shovel.