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A flower, sweet with scent and breathtaking with beauty...

The little effort taken to give a rose – somehow I feel its now my duty.

But, I ignore it and carry on in this blind malaise knowing that what I do is for love.

And yet, these moments of receiving the rose seem awry, if not feigned and I smile as you squirm with faceless glee.
Am I finally going mad or am I starting to see...?
I am starting to see through all the roses that you have accumulated and dried?
I feel stained...
Nothing appears to have been gained.

Except for the mass of dead roses - is it really that pleasant?
This present...
This present that you never expect...
Its nice to know that they mean a lot to you and I can tell by what you kept and how you never fail to accept.

But when you start seeing my flaws and nothing else, in your mind I become your monster and you slay me and I weep,
And you reap...
And so continues this concept.

I become a word - one that’s not hard to define or to say.
“Empty” is the word.
“Hollow” is its replacement.

I break down...

When the pool of tears, most clearly mine, begin to drown me, you begin to cry as well, making yourself the victim because I never do.
I thus become the monster again, guilt filling the “hollow”
And I become a word: regret...

This moment becomes as ironic as a crying clown...

I know our love is true but something has to change for I am no monster.
I am a man.
The mistakes I make should not be seen as who I am.
Its what I do right that should show you the man I am - the one who vowed to follow you to the depths of hell and back “for I am your king”

Love has bound me to you but your eyes of hate and tongue of knives lash a cage.

I am trapped, wounded and bleeding...
How can one feel joy with pain exceeding?
Your rage builds when you see me needing.
And you wonder why and you lash out for the answer, furthering my decent into your shadow...
And I become a word: pain

The words of degradation that you speak, when the spotlight is upon my flaws, pierce the very core of me like shards of jagged glass, slowly entering my heart and soul - a thousand shards.
And yet you don’t stop.
I’m fetal and weeping but you do not stop when you attack - you are no longer someone I can recognize...
And I become a word: fear
And I become a stain...

To think of the roses...
They are the only things that grant me the slightest of my sanity, if only for a brief moment.
There is a grave of roses where we sleep.
You never remember them when you become someone else...yet I am the same...

And I understand that one day I shall not feel this pain anymore but that is no longer comforting.
I know what happiness can feel like and now I’m addicted, searching for my next fix and knowing one day I’m going to become completely numb.
This makes me happy in an unhappy way.
My calloused smile veils my face and I accept the blame.

Nothing more to look forward to but the end.
Darkness waiting to consume me, hungry as a starving wolf yet calm and patient like a bear, black as night compared to a murder of crows, waiting for me to give in and pass on so they can divulge in my flesh...
Yes, the crows...

And I understand it as the end draws near: when I am finally gone we can finally cleanse ourselves of the pitch-black mud that became our alter egos.
You shall breathe again as “yourself” and be happy, for the sun will shine on.
I shall sleep forever with the roses, for it is where I belong.

I was destined to the grave of rose...