You’re tied to a tree full of thorns, bleeding to death. It’s okay. You’re watering the earth that is to be your grave. I’ll remember to bring you red roses, plucking each petal and crushing them with my fingers. Don’t worry, their scent is much evenly spread that way. Like the way you did to me, remember? Sorry for hurting you. But partly, it was also your fault. I was just the gun. You were the one who pulled the trigger. That’s cheesy, I admit. I’ll wait for me to be covered with mold. I don’t even have to. You already threw me away being pestered with bugs, slowly eating me alive.
You’re happier in the shade now. Happily bleeding.