
there’s flowers in my throat. they’ve bloomed anew and i feel the vines pierce into me. the thorns dig in like a promise to be loyal. to tear them from my throat would be to expire. (original writing piece by me)

if i tore my throat out, blood would spill like a fountain. i could stand to watch my hands be painted with crimson, but my fingers are already red from the knuckle up. they must be stained with my desperation from where i’ve already let my essence bleed from my mouth. the petals are soft when i’m still but i shudder when they fill my airways more. it must be cruel, to lull someone into a false sense of security. that’s how this world has always lived like a deer staring down a barrel of a gun. cold metal pressed to my forehead could never replace these flowers.
sometimes, i want to prove them wrong. curl my fingers around the stem and pull until i choke. let it spill from my lungs until i can’t breathe. until oxygen is but a faint memory. stain the roof of my mouth. to replace the taste of nature. venom drips when i try to scream and the thorns dig forevermore. but i am paralyzed like the deer. and i would let the headlights hit me. main ask extended
ㅤ