The sun became the bowl, The sweet nectar dripped from your rosy lips. Flowers inthralled your beauty, To preserve; To capture. Life breathed into your lungs, Mose burned on your fingertips. Your life became sorrow, Rain lashed from the skies. You cried a billion stars and the moon and the sun. Your hands chained to the ground, You cried out to me.
You called me cruel, Was it cruel to love somebody? You called me heartless, I am heartless now, you broke me, You broke my heart. You called me an animal, Was I an animal to have left?
Sweet words left your lips, The nectar became rotten, It became poison, Bitter; Sour and everything in between. When flowers were left in your wake, Now there was sadness, Tears and dirt, Rain drops lashed to the ground. My garden of sweet july, With nectar and flowers, And butterflies. The world was locked outside, Now you have ruined my garden, You have ruined me.
Pain is what I felt, Pain that lashes and curls and gives. Pain so hurtful; Oh so naive. I believed you would never hurt me. I believed of your luminous eyes, Of those rosy cheeks, Of pretty flowers And windmills. I believed of fire and rebellions and unending fame, The world was our stage, But you ruined our chance.
People bustled around my garden, They trampled my roses and little buds of growing flowers, They yelled and screamed, My sweet july passed to reveal the monsoon and rain. The rain became your body, Churning and burning and cutting of wounds, Killing and hurting, It hurts to breath. Healing feels of hurt, It hurts to breath after a lungful of water, Or cleaning of blood on slash of the whip, Or mending of hearts
Or of scathing the dirt for room for new memories.
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