One. I planted a poppy seed in my back garden for every time you broke the sky. They bloomed as softly as the lies you rooted in my chest, conecting the exposed wires to my brain stem. I never thought they'd erode a part of me that wanted to die.
Two. I built a bed of thorns for every time you chocked down my trust. I slept in it for three days, like a shallow grave of misguided programming. But at this point you had watered our aviary with blood lust and it must have been awfully convenient that you had the poppies to match. God was off duty that weekend and all I could think about was your camouflaged bug trap.
Three. By now, the coding of my skull had cracked and everything looked much like your eyes did the night you accidently said you loved me. Stems grew from the pit of my throat and I swear I could feel the ground quiver.
Four. My poppy flowers have melted into a sea of unclaimed blood.
Five. I woke up to a locked jaw and a splintered tongue. Right then, I felt like every missing escape key on every abandoned keyboard in all the major cities of America. Despite my best efforts, I am real.
Six. I'm sitting in a bathtub with a little bag full of drugs and hand drawn map to the nearest greenhouse. I've spent the last hour picking thorns from feet, each one a replication of me, a me before I started planting flowers.