Scardrac
Felsummer
The Flower
Between ragged eyes and decrepit soul I am torn asunder apart from my scarce and malnourished sleep. She calls to me so that I am unable to resist. I am drawn from my own body, apart from my own self. She is my flower, so I must not delay. It harms her precious pedals and her timid roots if I lay any resistance . As if it even matters to her that I am but a dusty burlap rag in light of her overwhelming silken sea of priority. Every day I cater to her will. Every day I suffer from her binding oppression. Where has my life gone, I wonder. All day I look around and everything I lay my eyes on is black and translucent, a rainy fog at midnight's draw. Any time I desire escape, she recalls to me of her foreshadow, of her promise of omnipresence. I wish to forget her but all I can wonder is of her. Her sanguine tears and adhesive love that clings on, clings on so tight.
Again I open my eyes to her. She stands alone, uprooted and grotesque. Her gray form adorned with her barbed and warped thorns. Her pedals are black scales, jagged and cryptic, so shattered. She lays in my world, my mind, a claustrophobic iron battlement, with walls so steadfast so that I may not leave. Is this my world? I thought. Is this my life? If it must be then I must remain. Nobody but the flower is here, and she wishes no other conclusion. These iron walls are cascaded in blood. So much from my suffering, from my time together. So much from her, from her sadistic harm upon herself. She bathes in this rule, but I bathe in this infernal hell that she calls 'love'. Warm me, she demands. Her controlling dictation forces me to encase my broken warmth around her. At first touch I bleed, yet she purrs with pleasure. I bleed me hope around her, yet she feeds off of her glorified grandeur. I try to find my comfort, but all that comes is more lost hope.
I tell her that I wish to leave. I wish to escape, I wish to help myself. Help me, she tells me. Help me be better.
We are alone, and she exists in nothing but my own care. She is a trap, a ruse. She has drawn me from my throne so high with guilt of her pathetic image. I hate you, I think. I love you, I tell her.
She desires reassurance, reassurance that she is not the only repulsive one, so that we are many. She subverts me, and models me into and from her own image. I cannot, I shall not escape. I want to leave, I tell her. Stay with me, I may be better, she says. I draw my warmth from her, letting her fall back onto the fiery furnace of a floor. No, I say.
What have I done wrong? She exclaims with her ghastly shriek, so familiar within my heart. The guilt replaces my hope, and all I wish is for her to die. For her to leave. I wish to escape this raven black hell.
All I desired is a life of our own, not one for her to draw her roots within and control. The flowers of the oceanic meadow call and all I have is her, my flower. I was promised divine, what transgressions have I committed to deserve such sin? She's no temptress but a contemptress, and I want it no more. These iron walls have started to rust with the sanguine nectar of my dead hope and her discarded lies. She wilts and weeps as I break these binds, but I care no longer. Her shrieks of pain please me, as I now see what it is like to be the one who hurts. She's been this way for so long, I think to myself. She wished eons of this love, but I wanted escape from the start. She has deceived my for too long, but now I take my leave. These iron walls have begun to crumble, and I see her lay in her tears of blood.
You do not need me, I say to her. Her tears flow like the empty hope of my old soul. She has scarred me for my now bright posterity. I turn away from her foul visage so caked in her misplaced sense of self consciousness. I hear her screams as I walk without a care, and all I do is smile. You do not need me, my flower. I love you, she shouts to me.
I shall loathe you until your markings on my skin decay. Goodbye.
Between ragged eyes and decrepit soul I am torn asunder apart from my scarce and malnourished sleep. She calls to me so that I am unable to resist. I am drawn from my own body, apart from my own self. She is my flower, so I must not delay. It harms her precious pedals and her timid roots if I lay any resistance . As if it even matters to her that I am but a dusty burlap rag in light of her overwhelming silken sea of priority. Every day I cater to her will. Every day I suffer from her binding oppression. Where has my life gone, I wonder. All day I look around and everything I lay my eyes on is black and translucent, a rainy fog at midnight's draw. Any time I desire escape, she recalls to me of her foreshadow, of her promise of omnipresence. I wish to forget her but all I can wonder is of her. Her sanguine tears and adhesive love that clings on, clings on so tight.
Again I open my eyes to her. She stands alone, uprooted and grotesque. Her gray form adorned with her barbed and warped thorns. Her pedals are black scales, jagged and cryptic, so shattered. She lays in my world, my mind, a claustrophobic iron battlement, with walls so steadfast so that I may not leave. Is this my world? I thought. Is this my life? If it must be then I must remain. Nobody but the flower is here, and she wishes no other conclusion. These iron walls are cascaded in blood. So much from my suffering, from my time together. So much from her, from her sadistic harm upon herself. She bathes in this rule, but I bathe in this infernal hell that she calls 'love'. Warm me, she demands. Her controlling dictation forces me to encase my broken warmth around her. At first touch I bleed, yet she purrs with pleasure. I bleed me hope around her, yet she feeds off of her glorified grandeur. I try to find my comfort, but all that comes is more lost hope.
I tell her that I wish to leave. I wish to escape, I wish to help myself. Help me, she tells me. Help me be better.
We are alone, and she exists in nothing but my own care. She is a trap, a ruse. She has drawn me from my throne so high with guilt of her pathetic image. I hate you, I think. I love you, I tell her.
She desires reassurance, reassurance that she is not the only repulsive one, so that we are many. She subverts me, and models me into and from her own image. I cannot, I shall not escape. I want to leave, I tell her. Stay with me, I may be better, she says. I draw my warmth from her, letting her fall back onto the fiery furnace of a floor. No, I say.
What have I done wrong? She exclaims with her ghastly shriek, so familiar within my heart. The guilt replaces my hope, and all I wish is for her to die. For her to leave. I wish to escape this raven black hell.
All I desired is a life of our own, not one for her to draw her roots within and control. The flowers of the oceanic meadow call and all I have is her, my flower. I was promised divine, what transgressions have I committed to deserve such sin? She's no temptress but a contemptress, and I want it no more. These iron walls have started to rust with the sanguine nectar of my dead hope and her discarded lies. She wilts and weeps as I break these binds, but I care no longer. Her shrieks of pain please me, as I now see what it is like to be the one who hurts. She's been this way for so long, I think to myself. She wished eons of this love, but I wanted escape from the start. She has deceived my for too long, but now I take my leave. These iron walls have begun to crumble, and I see her lay in her tears of blood.
You do not need me, I say to her. Her tears flow like the empty hope of my old soul. She has scarred me for my now bright posterity. I turn away from her foul visage so caked in her misplaced sense of self consciousness. I hear her screams as I walk without a care, and all I do is smile. You do not need me, my flower. I love you, she shouts to me.
I shall loathe you until your markings on my skin decay. Goodbye.
! 
