The Bouquet Hangs Like A Cross On My Wall,

the bouquet hangs like a cross on my wall,

a forged religion left to die.

i left a church once before,

i can’t bring myself to leave this one, even if the cross is all that is left behind.

i took a shower this morning,

but i didn’t wash my hair.

it smelled like cigarettes.

it looks terrible,

but i wanted to keep that lingering bit of you.

old and also new

When you found me, I was on a shelf. Dusty, used, longed for, yet forgotten. Then I met you. You plucked me off of the shelf. You brushed the dust off me, patted me on the head, And said, You will be fine my love. You will be mine. You will be loved. You showed me love for a short time. Then, one day, you did what everyone else had done. You found a new doll.  You put me back on the shelf, and soon enough, there she was. Now I shall collect the dust once again. 

and at the end of it all, we didn’t even get to dance

why do i know its coming? why is the end inching closer, closer? it's killing me, my love, its taking the air out of my chest and tearing it open. it reveals my heart to you. yet you do not care. you won't take it, you won't even look at it. it would be easier if you just spat on it. you have spat on it. and you don't even know. i know, though. i know where you lie.

i have not forgotten yours.