(Longish Read)
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Coming home to a face I don't recognize
She always has a way of coming back to me
Her home is my butterfly garden
The one place nobody else has ever seen

She's poisoned my butterflies
But I've wilted my own Rose

I'm stuck in my own creations of hell;
Captivating thoughts of what could've been
Captivating dreams where she visits me

Some would say "Why're you stressing? Everything you're experiencing is a part of a blessing." But that's wrong, because this "blessing" is what keeps me constantly stressing

She left her mark and I solidified it
She gave me scars that I deepened
She told me things that have consumed me
And now...
From these scars, her mark, and her words
I'm trying to piece together an some sort of an escape from my own personal creation...
My own personal hellscape