I am losing my sense of identity.
My direction has curved the proximity of my feelings.

You gradually eroded into my brain,
creating a temple of unnecessary thoughts
that corrupted my mind.

As I try to clean and perfect my mind,
I suddenly realised-
perfection is just an imagery concept,
made from society’s beliefs
to justify unrealistic expectations.

I sit and wonder at my window:
Would the simplicity of my silence
remove the arrow you bury
so deeply in your heart?

I don’t want to be misunderstood anymore. I want to feel more, love more, and be more. But if I allow myself to feel more, I will feel far too much. If I feel too much, would your perspective of me change?

I don’t want to be like the cheap, bad glue on a “Get Well Soon” card—worn down completely but still trying to hold it all together. Briefly looked at but not read properly. I wasn’t the money you hoped to find. I was just the writing and the thought that was put onto a card.

But that’s not enough.
I eventually get tossed out without a second thought, or I am placed on the coffee table, collecting dust, watching your life through the gap that I’m still standing high from.

Maybe the prospect of my inner core
would change over time creating me into a sour unpleasant mess. Am I worth the mess? And the sweetness of my blood that will stain and yet remain on your hands? Will you have to scrub me off ?
The mess of what you created of me remains? Did your feelings perpetuate over time, as you learnt all about my insides? As you started to scoop me dry. Do your lips remain the same or do they still have my stain? Did I stain you or did you just crush me apart for your own pleasure. You crushed my inner whites,  my thoughts deteriorated while I waited for you on the kitchen side. As my colours began to fade brown over time. it made me wonder if you were ever mine.

I am a golden flower, I stand out in the garden. But over time the shade deteriorates and drains me. I run out of water and I begin to rot. My pure inner golds begin to fade into bronze. I have lost all my authority, I beg to be noticed, to have some sunshine to grow. But all I experienced is shade, humiliation and toxicity from the weather. I plead to myself when will I become healthy again. Where has my spark gone I get picked out the flower garden and tossed to a side. Over time I start to fall apart and decompose until I become compost. I won’t be put in resin and made into a book mark, my beauty is no longer so why would I be shown off? No one wants flowers when they’re dead.