as winter approaches,
in the chill of November's beginning,
she finds herself unable to remember
when her withered petals started spinning
off its stems.

her mind, an enigma
her heart in constant anguish
as the darkness inside begins to consume
her
banish her from light
and mock her pride.

her heart and soul
for a smile so pure,
one not fabricated out of guilt
of making impressions
or of shame,
one not to hide the lashes
of words she received
in a fit of misplaced rage.

she remembers her petals
so velvet red,
like silk as music fluttered
so happily in her head,
where it was okay to be okay
where she could escape
beneath her blankets,
in a good book
at the end of the day.

where had it gone?
why would it not stay?
had she done something wrong,
to shatter her pathway?
could she not just go back
before the mental attack
and keep things out of disarray?

instead she sits curled,
on the edge of her bed
the petals once rosy
now withered like the dead
crying the tears long overdue
thinking to myself,
"that girl is me"
and I hate that it's true.