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AIZAWA, BLOOM
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make a love story out of curling thorns and gaping mouths, let his garden of roses grow in your lungs, offer it sunshine and daisies—give this garden everything and leave nothing for yourself. choke on my love, you hear him plea although no words come out from those chapped lips and distant eyes, let my love flourish in the cages of your chest.
and oh, oh no, you romanticize this garden with the love you can only see. (why can't he see?) his eyes are dark and narrowed, always focused on what is ahead. (why can't he see me?) he looks exhausted, too exhausted for this world. render me powerless. make me your equal. the gods are mere mortals before him.
if his eyes meet yours, will your garden of love stop growing so abundantly?
he loves me.
spring comes along with the birth of your love. the season where the flowers bloom to its most beautiful glory and the world welcomes this discovery. your vomit comes in form of red-stained petals of flowers you know screams this is an unrequited love, what a pitiful lover you must be, and if you clench your fists around them, it makes everything feel more real.
he loves me not.
"aizawa-kun!" if you stumble a little as you fidget on the lunch box you made just for him, and if your skin itches with the bandaid wrapped tightly around your fingers, and if you refuse to meet his eyes because what if he renders my love useless? what if my love is not authentic enough for those eyes that always see—if it all happens, he has to understand. your love is hard. your love is painful. your love is everything that is there and that is not. you see his blond friend look between the two of you and your cheeks turn zero-two-one-four shades of red, redder than the petals you stuff within your blazer's pocket. "i made this for you and, um, i hope you enjoy it!"
he does not say thank you but he looks at you (what if he pulls the love out of you?) and nods once. his friend says he is such a bastard and he feels envious for the homemade lunch you made for him.
you watch him leave, his back turned as if you never existed. the only remains of your memory is the box in his hands and oh oh oh oh—you love him so much that you will gladly grow a thousands of gardens for him.
does he like flowers?
does he like gardens?
does he want to make a garden?
you will help him.
please—
he loves me.
he loves me not.
when has love gotten so painful? when has love turned so cruel? when has this love story become a painful tragedy? when did you start questioning the authenticity of the roses blooming from your chest? breathe with me. everything aches and it feels like the flowers planted in your chests are being plucked out and plucked out and plucked out and—
i love you. i do.
but please—
this garden is too much for me.
.
plot? what plot? i only know metaphors and vague aizawa.
