You're never going to get the dirt under from your finger nails that way, believe me, I've tried.
Sometimes I wish it hurt more. The reconciliation with bad thoughts my parents would consider "a phase". But the moon goes through phases everyday, mom. She locked the closet at night to keep me safe and sound, but the friendly ghosts and demons tucked me in that night. And their powerful kiss on my mouth turned into the boy I slept with every night. The absence of his presence was loathing and I craved his touch. He made me believe I was more lovely than the way the flowers grew in the spring. His lips, his hands, his everything was more than what the sun ever wanted from the stars. To burn. He made flowers grow in my lungs as he tore off my shirt to see the left over lines that spelled out his love for me. Sometimes I wish it hurt more since he loves me right? Throwing my neck back to far he bit my heart right out of my chest. But sharing is caring and he stole my heart and although flowers grew in my lungs, he suffocated me. But that's okay. Okay, it hurts and despite the blood frothing from my chest, I was becoming blue. And purple. And suddenly... He no longer loved the color purple.
Tell my why it hurts like this? Tell me why my heart no longer beats the same way as it used to. Tell me why my the beautiful flowers that he watered turned into ashes and they fell down to the pit of my stomach. I stare in the mirror and realize that the hole in my chest is blackened with the fact that it's only dirt. My veins are purple and no matter how much I hate purple, I hate myself for being in the asylum of love. But how does it get better? How does it get better when the moon still just wants to be loved and gets shunned everyday for himself?
And for days that turned into weeks and I wake up and realize it's 2 am and my chest hurts and I can't breathe. I drown in tears, tears as big as waves racing down my cheeks yet I dig my nails through my chest and rip open the dirt. Thoughts of you exhaust my soul and distractions turn into memories. Actions become a suicidal thought. So come rain on my chest and wish that all you saw was a skeleton sitting in the corner of a grave.
But let me tell you something darling; I'm not going to say it gets better because that's a fucking lie. It always gets worse before it gets better. Flowers will die. Flowers will get picked. Flowers will get stamped on. But flowers will always grow back. And so will you.
