Flowers

(Song I listened to while writing: Watercolour eyes – Lana Del Rey)

Flowers,

He gets you flowers, when yells at you

When he gets unnecessarily angry with you

When his cruel words get branded deep into your skin

When there’s a pool of tears beneath your feet

When he makes you cry your lungs out

When his accusations have worn you out, things you haven’t done ever, not even now.

When his tone and eyes are colder than the wind that blew on your first date. You reminisce all those good days,

Every promise made in those yesterdays

I once read that the people who love you will never make you choose between love and self love. They’ll be conscious of how their actions will affect you. But you know no matter what he does, you’ll always choose to love him.

They’re apologies, so the flowers come during your lowest times.

But flowers don’t last long, and just like them. There’s a time limit until your soul has finally withered, when the last petal falls dead onto the table, so will the final piece your heart.

And then the healing comes, but again time is only a limit. 

“I’ll go to therapy” “I’ll do better” “Things will be better”

Are phrases you hear more times than you could possibly memorise, they begin to become less countable than sand. Then the cycle restarts, and with that…The flowers come again.

Suddenly the phrases transform themselves from pure hope to distrust and control, you find yourself explaining everything you’re doing and everything you’ve done and haven’t done, even in your past. And now the flowers run out of water, but you’re too tired and too deep into a depressive state to quench their thirst.

“What did you do in between those 30 minutes you were gone?”

“What was that message?”

“Why are you saying this phrase? I’ve never heard you say it before”

“Why didn’t you tell me you activated your account again?” and no matter how insignificant it was, he gets angry for it.

All you do is talk the way you consider normal, but somehow you strike nerve after neve.

It’s almost as if you could clap faster or blink slower than a minute before… And suddenly that makes you guilty of every bad thing that a person could possibly do.

And then you find yourself exhausted from explaining, from proving your innocence. Because no matter what you do, the trust is never there. You can’t take a break, not a thirty minute one to continue watching your favourite show, or to read your favourite book. Because to him that means you don’t want him, no matter how untrue that is.

The vase breaks and you walk on top of the glass pieces, doing everything in your power to not upset him. To not make him further insecure.

You try to not make noise, even when the glass cracks as you perform a soft ballet routine on top it. 

You don’t even breathe as the pieces dig into your skin, you don’t even let out a small complaint as you bleed.

The pain inflicted by him leaves scars on your wrists.
You’re a motionless iris flower inside a pot
The doormat outside his room’s door

You wither, keep withering. Again, time has a limit, patience does too, endurance does as well.

Your mental state is a ticking bomb, when the flowers continue to come. 

You only wish the flowers came, when you both were at your best and no apologies needed to be made.