all you are is a bouquet of weeds, finding your
way through the cuts haphazardly placed on
my frail legs, and sitting in my veins rotting like
roadkill, turning the flowers in my stomach into
a swamp of misery and dehydration. as intrusive
as you are, i can't seem to get rid of you. nobody
told me that drugs is not only just opiates and
stimulates, that it could possibly be as much of a  
psychological need as love does to me. i couldn't
imagine being squeezed around my neck like a
snake, hand or noose deadlocking me but i suffocate
in my mistakes. so it makes sense that's why the
garden in my chest has been long forgotten about:
i've forgotten to take care of myself. i need people
to help me with making sure that i'm important and
vital to them. all i ever am is a bouquet of weeds, and
i feel like i grow so attached to a person that i end up
being that snake, noose, or hand constricting them
until they need to pry themselves loose. i'm sorry.

- kra