A buttercup clenched in her hand, yellow draining down the tips,
not even colour was her companion as she fell apart.
In bits.
Wetness mapped a trail upon the canvas they called her face,
her cries banishing the petals.
To a brighter place.
A picture of laughter, the clasping of hands, a bitter love
that only the cruelty of youth claimed.
She belonged above.
The colour yellow, so vibrant, so free in her mind,
as she was a bird, thinking a cage her universe.
To leave her behind.
A buttercup clenched in her hand, grey dripping down the tips,
nobody was her companion as she fell apart.
In bits.
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts of a Wallflower
RandomHer feelings were a burden, so she wrote herself away. Escaping upon a page, tucked away for another day.
