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you were never going to last long. it wasn't like you didn't know or anything. it wasn't new news, how will you last? you watch your skin rot away like a striptease, falling off the more you look. you had a garden when you were younger; you planted seems and daffodils but they blew away like dandelion fur, the birds ate everything else, as natural selection command.
DUST UNDER YOUR SKIN AND― ―MILDEW OVER YOUR TONGUE.
natural selections never liked you much though, has it? you're sick in the head, down to your wrinkled toes, gone flush down for rot to grow from your lungs. blooms out like sakura branches. you've never liked sakura flowers, you think they due to fast for how pretty they are.
heartache doth declare people like you as dead weight (you left them all, didn't you?). you set them to rest with ire in their hearts and flame on their tongue.
fury hath no heart as pleasant as thee.
.
.
.
(YOU DRINK UNTIL YOUR BLOOD IS REPLACED WITH GOLD AND THE WATER IN YOUR DRAIN IS REPLACED WITH COLD HEARD LIQUOR.)
all you love has turned to the weeds you've planted under your skin. you don't see the way you're dying though―you don't see it for the same reason people in times square can't see new york. it's for the same reason you cannot hold all beach sand in between your fingertips, no matter how small every grain may be.
but you'll never do anything but water your flowers, not knowing they're weeds.
