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.