I held a wilting flower in my hand
as it told me how I inspired it to die;
how my words resonated with its symphony of pain
and echoed out a toxic lullaby
I held the wilting flower in my hand
with a lost voice and helpless eyes
The roots were dry and I pleaded for life
But the petals withered,
Inspired to die.
I held a dead flower in my hand
as its thorns dug deep and scars ran wide
My hands, stained with red
Still reeked of shame,
but the blood that trickled, wasn’t mine.
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