Why is it that at the end of every sentence I write.
There's a man with a knife piercing it's blade into the back of my brain.
My mind feels colder this year.
Minutes die faster but hours live longer.
Half-empty water bottles like my goals scattered across my room.
I wrapped a noose around concequences neck and kicked the chair he stood on.
I watched his legs dangle like dancing ballerinas on top of a frozen creek.
His face went colorless.
Then I buried him beneath my bed.

I've always been the fool,
Whom walked through bodies of gardens with hovering hands.
Touching petals with the tip of my fingers till I picked the prettiest rose.
Blooming in the garden of the ugliest inner rib cage.
Impatient hands forcing the fold of fingers.
Grasping mistake after mistake again.
Till my eye caught the glistening black of aesthetic beauty at the ends of your throat.
Arm stretched, down the mouth of the abyss.
Finger tips caressing torn petals,
Thorns settled into my skin.
I pulled the scarlet blood rose out your throat and I fell in love with the withering.
They say that no one loves a flower when it withers away but I loved you.