As a young child,
I would go out and pick a flower.
Flowers are pretty, picking them is fun.
Then I would torture this flower,
Tearing off it’s petals it grew,
One by one.
He loves me,
He loves me not.
He loves me,
He loves me not.
Over and over.
Killing the poor defenseless piece of nature.
I’ve grown,
After years and years,
I don’t go to those flowers now.
Instead, I torture myself.
He loves me,
He loves me not.
I miss him,
I miss him not.
Thoughts and thoughts,
Coursing through my head.
I’v began to pick off my petals now,
Pieces of my heart crashing to the floor.
He loves me,
He loves me not.