Was I your black halfeti rose?
The way you took me from my soil, dug me a small grave, and expected me to thrive.
The way you weren't my home,
but how I so badly wanted to stay with you before I closed my eyes.

Admire the beauty of the cryptic and rare.
Look me in the eyes, and pretend you care.
Water me down and convince yourself I'll last.
And I'll pretend your love grows like Perennial ryegrass.

Maybe I was your Chinese Evergreen?
But I could never purify the things that surround you-
Never take away the haunted air's harm and neglect-
I could only hope I was the source of oxygen that cradled your chest.

But maybe I am not a flower at all.
Fragile and soft, yes, my hair consists of blue blooms bearing brittle, broken  beliefs.
Encasing complicated, snapped wires that sizzle and shock my senses.
I'm fragile like a bomb, not like a piece of your garden that only catches your gaze when you have the tears to water it.

But our love is a different mental case that can only be described as a flower that dies beautifully.
In French, they call that flower immortelles.
A flower that even when wilting towards it's demons,
shows others to not let anyone else feel secondhanded sorrow.