44. Left for good.
If I think hard enough I might be able to grasp the butterflies in my stomach, and if I concentrate enough I might be able to fathom the fireworks exploding in my chest at the sight of you. Every thought is a strand of hair on my head and I was born with a full head of hair. If you tried to straighten all my thoughts and get them in order they would do the opposite and knot up; each and every strand. I hate the smile that blooms on your lips as I make a stupid joke and I hate the sound of the door slamming as you leave when you're done with me. Our conversations are like dead flowers, which once were beautiful, luscious flowing gardens with flowers of every colour. The pinks represented our cute interactions and the blue ones, comfort. Now all I see is dark and all I wear is black, but I'm not dead, I just dress like it. Our garden has lost all life because you left the garden for a puny yard somewhere outside; in the world we both once protested against. Now you're beliefs are as that the yard you're in is better than any garden we've grown together and you've only come back once in our garden and it was to step on every bud and spark a flame to every petal. The bushes are charred and the trees are ash. All that is left is the one black rose of hope I have for you. I'm still attached, over attached, and not only is that black rose hope, it is hate. I'm filled with hate for you and hurt by you and now every rose grows thorns and each time I try to pick them and set fire to them like you did so I forget about you, they stab me and make me bleed, and the ground in our once beautiful garden is covered in the redness of my love and blood and each step you take farther away from me, another thorn pierces me and another drop of ugly red blood drops on the place you and I once shared in love and happiness when all things were coloured and amazing. Now I'm painted black and you're never coming back.