Wilted

Love.

She was in love.

A bloom of warmth

As her eyes meet his.

A spark.

A chance.

A smile.

She chokes out butterflies,

Whispers sweet perfume.

His smile is sunlight to her soul...

He turns, his sunlight not for her.

His butterflies for someone else,

His heart blooming for another.

She crumples, the thorns of her love piercing,

Painful.

The bloom inside her stealing her breath,

Her blood, her soul.

Vines coil around her heavy heart

Cutting into her heaving lungs,

Suffocating her.

Her love is painful,

Her adoration a disease.

The roses and thorns intoxicate,

leaving maddening emotion and

Bleeding cuts.

She despises her bloom.

She despises every bloom there ever was.

Every bloom that ever caused a person the pain

She feels.

She gags on her blossoms,

A sign of love, now a show of heartache.

She falls to her knees,

The scent of her blooms potent,

Urging her on.

The thorns slice her flesh,

Sharper than a cruel tongue.

Blood like a dark lipstick.

Tears spring from her heavy eyes,

Hypoxia muddling her mind.

Her love is monstrous, destructive,

Reckless.

She struggles to breathe,

The saccharine scent filling her lungs.

She collapses under the weight of the stares around her,

The guilt and disgust.

She wasn't a victim.

She was a fool.

In agony, her blooms invade her heart,

Her throat.

Her brain.

Blood spills to the ground,

The thorns and roses emerge,

And in the agony of love,

She wilts.