𝔞𝔡 𝔡𝔦𝔠𝔞𝔱𝔞 to you who almost completely destroyed my soul
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I pricked my finger on thorns of roses, In a meadow of faux forget-me-nots, Salt wasted on you who chase his exes, Was this one of your most evil of plots?
I seek a place to shed these tears of mine, For it is fit in this garden no more, Foreign or familiar -- either is fine, A place unheard of or a place of lore,
The River of Styx might just do me well, I weep with the souls who met their demise, But still I yearn for a sunrise so swell, So from the river of death I shall rise,
The belladonna you have offered me, Must be a shame I tossed it sincerely.
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