The Hands, the Vase and the Flower

If you ever think you were wrong,
you’re right.
If you ever think you did bad,
you’re doing good.
When you broke the flower vase,
you had to take care of your cuts,
but you have quickly forgotten
that my home was shattered too.

A dead flower needed her vase.
A dead flower would begin to decay soon.
A red flower died because of you.
A red flower died because she loved you.

 


You let someone hold you, and because of their carelessness, or because they’re just tired of how heavy you can be sometimes, or for “no” reason, they drop you. Your heart’s broken. Your vase is destroyed, shattered into many pieces that you can’t possibly put back together on your own.
They say “oh! I was cut! She’s in the wrong and I’m innocent.”
Well, what about the poor flower? What about this poor flower? You got cut. Yes. You got cut but I died. Sorry to you but adieu to me. I don’t bleed, I’m a flower, but I can get very badly hurt too.
Also, I’ve not been resting in perfect peace; I’ve not even been resting in one piece.

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