All i was doing was trying my best.
I was trying so hard that it hurt.
But no matter how hard i try you still don't care.
Every night I'm scared that your heart might beat it's final note. That the last whispering wind will pass your chapped lips.
I'm scared that I'll lose you, that I'll end up alone in a world full of happy families.

I lost him so many years before, not to the sickle wielding death but to the firey pains of choice and truth.
He didnt want me.
You always said that he would regret his choices because he couldnt see me grow into what i am.... what i will be. But it seems that longing is a foreign feeling that he will never accept.
Much like you won't accept how hard i try every day just so your heart still beats and your lungs still contract.
But then...... you raised your hand to strike me.
I realized then in the moment your hand lurched down and toward me as if praying to the heavenly divine.
You didnt care about me or my feelings either.
Pain spread through my veins like an unwanted weed. Creeping up my spine until it pooled in my eyes and slid like rain drops down my cheeks.
You didnt notice that either, did you?
But now mother, I'm getting tired. The flowery weed of pain and hurt that once was the focal point of the garden inside my body, is wilting. As is everything else.
Everytime a petal falls from it's carefully selected place i can feel the numbing, suffocating air take its spot until i cannot feel a thing.

Because when you raised your hand at me, ready to strike, you flooded my very being with a slow but deadly plant killer. And now you have to live with a cracked and empty pot on your windowsill.

A/N this poem if you can even call it that is wayyy more.... abstract? than my others. It was a spur of the moment sort of thing that just poured out. Its a lot longer than my others too.
Please tell me what you think, it would honestly mean the world.

Stay pastel!