On the day we made an end our bitter words were exchanged at high peaks,
For that, you had bought me a bouquet that smelled as fresh as the perfume of a princess getting ready for the evening ball,
Left in oneself pain created by her own body.
I’ll stare at that bouquet until my eyes fill up with regretful tears that start falling slowly down my red cheeks and that bouquet will stare back at me as it sits on my vanity.
With everyone telling me “finally” all I’m feeling is sickly,
Sick to my pitiful stomach wondering what I did wrong as I stare emptily at that bouquet sitting on my vanity.
Metaphorically speaking, that bouquet holds all of what we were in each flowers tiny putal held so tightly together at the stem.
Remorse building up, thoughts of you are colliding,,
Good, bad, good, bad, good, bad, good, and then bad again.
Was this a mistake? Did I mess this up?
I just want to feel safe again. Held and secured as I sit here gazing at this bouquet sitting on my vanity.