A horrid jealousy invades my heart
because I can't accept the harsh reality
that I am not yours,
A flood of tears sweeps my outer soul
and I recognize my non-existence
as the razor is pushed deeper;
inserted directly into
my soft, tangle of emotions.
You hang my heart on a leash
and drag it on the ground.
But why do you lead me on?
only to melt sugar in the rain,
Look at you...
knotting my stomach
and withering my soul.
Why can't I let go?
Maybe if I cared more
about myself than I do you.
But I don't.

Autumn is coming to a close,
and winter is drawing near.
Life is as fragile as a rose,
and mine is withering, I fear.

I will always remember the day Grandma exclaimed how much of a joy my brother was. She would call him her perfect little flower.

As a child, it didn't mean much to me. But as I grew older, I came to realize the truth behind her words...

He was a daisy blooming in the spring. Where as I, a dead rose, slowly withering away. However, it wasn’t my choice, nor was it my brothers

Because a flower doesn’t get to choose what it grows into. It’s gardener determines how to raise it, how to treat it, and how to tend to it's individual needs.

Society was my gardener.

My point is, society labeled me as a dying rose, so eventually, I believed them.