The Worst Rose

No, I’m not okay.

Tired of pretending and mixing up separate realities.

They keep asking me,

“Hey, are you doing okay?”

No, I’m not doing okay.

You wake up with this gaping hole,

Wanting to do good,

Until the world outside just pierces right through it,

Crushes all your hopes as it treads ahead,

Ahead into the future.

You stand with your bleeding fingers,

Trying to fix your hair.

“Hey, are you doing alright?”

Yeah, yes, I...

You think everyone is just so pure,

You have no definition of the other.

Someone breaks right through your reverie,

Is this death, and I am yet to wake up?

Why do I keep looking for structure,

When everything is running to break apart,

Saved on the edge?

Is it too late for me?

I can still swim out,

Before the waves push me over.

The emptiness is calling again.

Rhetorics, jargon, and empty noises all around.

When did it get so loud?

Chaos ensues.

I have the key,

The key to the quiet.

Why must I not turn the lock?

What is stopping me?

Deflection.

So scared that it would shred me to pieces,

I push it away.

How long will I even go this way?

Need to stand in front of it,

Face its cold lips on me.

Can’t be that bad, will it?

Running away to the wrong places each time,

Each time ringing the wrong bells.

Need to get it together, I guess.

Everything is designed as a drug.

Someone gave a box of beautiful roses.

She said, “Pick one, your favorite color.”

So beautiful, I picked the one I disliked the most.

So many colors, but I picked my least favorite one.

What is this called?

You choose and deliberately pick the one,

The one that’s supposed to be the worst for you.

Lana was right-

“You and I , we were born to die.”

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