she only had others in her cluttered mind
like dried roses wilting in white cracked vases
desperately, she waters them the only way she knows how:
with love.

but all she can do is turn her head
towards the bullet hole in her chest
when she sees the curled petals drift
aimlessly towards the polished floor

she doesn’t recognize the way her love
seeps into the flimsy stems like brewed poison,
suffocating any gram of will until there is nothing but
cold thorns that stabs pins into her wounds

and she’ll learn the bitter lesson of too much love:
that it harms her more than anything else could