False home

There was something peculiar in the way you talk

my eyes blinded me,

distanced me from the truth which laid there so innocent in its own dread.

For the moment, I swear, we were infinitive.

White roses on my window sill

bathed in the colours of sunset,

which has become darker and darker with every breath that I took

like my roses, drenched with blood and sorrow that you gave me.

I guess, the prettiest flowers always get picked first.

I was like a stone trying to became a perfect statue

that you sculptured with your own desires,

but hit a breaking point.

I am still searching for the lost pieces that, I know, will never find again.

You stabbed me in the back and twitched it so the pain lasted longer,

than it should have,

suffocating me in your embrace,

that I thought I could call it home.

By Nike Stres Ovnič, 2.C