A field of flowers, a plague wrought upon by my insecure thoughts:
Does he love me, or does he not?
I scatter the petals into the wind; they falter, unable to answer my question
A daisy chain is broken with ruthless pain as my fingers commit a massacre
He loves me not, or does he? Why don’t the full blooms answer?
They say a lady should never sleep with a stranger
But his arms felt like freedom to my entangled heart
The blood-thirsty lips of the devil have a taste for foolish girls
And their foolish desires which wholly satiate liars and their sick lusts
Are they any less savage than those of us who lay waste to a field of roses?
Licking the blood the thorns draw from our fingers
The pain of bleeding is far more satisfying than that of a broken heart, constantly wounded and dense in scar tissue
He loves me, he loves me not.