I no longer want to fight
against the pulsing dark.
I no longer want to flee
toward the membrance of warmth.

We use to be so happy
in our Sunday clothes.
We use to rejoice in the
pinpoint reflection of sun light.

Now ties become synonymous
to the hangman's noose.
Now sun only reminds us
of the things we left behind.

We weren’t made to be happy
the rose taught me this.
We weren’t made to thrive
you taught me this.