I hated knives, it made others bled.
Not mine.
But I was weak to cut mine, so I got them a new lily, hoping it'd make them happy. Eventually it made them sad, so I got them roses hoping they'd smile like sunshine, yet they complained about the thorns it pierced their dry palms.
I got them fake roses, they complained about the lack of smell and feel.
I sighed, with discontentment.
I slept on the bed of lilies, next morning my body bled.
It finally bled, as I cut the flowers with my dry hands bleeding, disappointment then seeps in.
It wasn't my fault, I screamed to my heart.
Oh but it is, everything I touched turned to ashes.
It didn't bleed, it wasn't alive.
It was just, gone. Red, iron scent, all gone,
Hoping the earth would fix the ashes, all green and brown, instead of bleeding red.
