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