an array of colours in my little sunflower field, the oranges appearing within the yellow of their colouring. green roots and brown soil, the blue sky and warm sun—it was all my little sunflower field. a perfect, picturesque sunflower field.

you told me you loved it—the neatly trimmed grass and the fresh smell of wet soil when the earth's tears overflowed our grounds. you admired my persistence in the sunflower field, commended my soul which had fallen into it, although you pointed out the hollow carving within my red heart. i told you it was fine, and that everything was good because you were here. me and you, in our little sunflower field.

although the colours were soon marred, there was still some beauty. unfortunately my soul had tainted the picturesque view with blank shards of glass scattered carelessly amongst it all, crumbling under your feet. it hurt, yes, but you said you enjoyed the view, and that was good enough.

it had to be good enough, because if it wasn't, i wouldn't of had you. i couldn't have had you. you crumbled my soul with your heavy leather boots and crushed the little flowers that were yet to bloom. the sky of a clear blue was irritated by your puffs of smoke, the wilting of my freshly trimmed grass filling my sight. our little sunflower field wasn't a pretty sight, but it was still was ours—and that made you happy.

even if i was dying.

even if i was crying.

even if i was lying.

even if i was sighing.

even if i was trying—trying to fix our little sunflower field.

but it was okay. it was okay that everything was dying, because you were happy, and if you were happy, that was good enough.

was.

- r.

the sky is now filled with ash, and i' m suffocating under all your smoke; nineteenth december, 18