Air Bubbles And Paper Cuts

...

The roses you handed me 
We're never even roses.
They were wilting weeds
That you placed in my shaky hands.
I grip on to the dead plants
Like my life depends on it.
In my mind,
I've confronted you about it
At least a thousand different times.
Somehow I just know,
I'll never muster up the courage to tell you,
No matter how many flowers you give me,
It won't won't make up for your
absences.