Death

Why do the people that I get most attached to always seem to leave.

Do I scare them? Intimidate them? Annoy them?

All I try in do is love them as best I can.

The best people seem to realize what they have done, and so they try in return.

Most of the time I have to reject them.

Beautiful my heart shall be until it truly breaks into millions of pieces.

People come and go. When they return, how can I tell wether they will leave again or not?

Die my heart does every time one goes, and again when I must turn them down.

When love found me, I was scared. I ran away from it, but it captured me in its claws.

You walked after me and took my heart right from me. You said you needed to fix it.

Are you happy with your work? I believe you almost succeeded in fixing it.

In a dream I lived. True at times it turned into a nightmare.

A nightmare which bleed discretely within the gorgeous dream.

Garden. My garden. You tried to take my garden from me, but I wouldn’t let you.

Which parts are lost though? Because we both know you trampled some of my flowers.

Flowers which bloomed so bright, lost their glow quite a while ago. Now they are dead.

Do you know what you put me through? I loved you, so much. And then you left.

You say you regret the moment you left. But then why did you leave at all?

Pick the favorite parts of me and devour them. That’s what you tried to do.

The favorite parts of me you stole.

Most of my favorite parts of myself I can no longer find.

Beautiful parts of me that now seem to be missing.

Ones that I want back, but are going to take me quite a while to recover.

Exactly when all of my flowers have regrown, somebody new comes and tramples them.

Why are people so cruel? People who do not even know me and never will.

Does my pain truly bring them that much content with their forms of torturing me.

Death loves me, and I suppose I love her back. She is not the killer. She is the Savior.

Exist just to bring pain to others. What type of life is that?

At my worst times I wish I were dead At my best, I don’t feel anything.

All I wish for is happiness. But it’s not always that easy to come by I suppose.

Who cares though? Why cares how I feel, unless you perhaps feel the same?

Picks many flowers in their lives the haters do.

The one thing I always think about, who made it so the haters got the power to judge?

Flowers after flowers they pick. When will it ever stop. When will they have had enough?

Anyways, I’m off to go regrow my flowers once more. Care to join me?

-Monachopsis