tears on my scars.

the cold winter and the flowey spring.

I always thought you were the one
And I still think
You are the cold winter
And I am the flowey spring.

I painted my mind red
And decorated the room
All of the ghosts that haunted through
I told them it was time they went home.

Your rejection feels like a saving redemption
Your scars don't scathe me
All those sinful thoughts
Are now set free.

I crave to carve your name on my sole soul
And when you said I'm crazy
My unfed mind
Devoured itself.

I write because I feel
I feel because of you
You are a fucking loner
You don't know that love is true.

Whenever I feel like dying
I always think
If I die
Then who will write my poems to you?

You think I would hate you for what you have done
But I could never
For I remember the person you had been
And I love you for the person that you’ve become.

I love the way I write for you
And you read for me
You would never accept
But I know you know what I feel.

You're not writing to me
And I don't feel sad about it
For I am grateful to you
For being my muse.

Is your silence, your unsent letters?
I get down to beat taste like peppers
Your silence feels like violence
This plight is a bad superstition.

I still hide you in my poetry
And you know that too
You're fucked up and screwed
I'm glad I didn't flee.

I have been cursed with forgetfulness
Still, I remember you
Everything in this universe takes me back to you
I love to stay in my imagination, for it has you.