Pouring out hеr chest, her sweet flowers lay wilted
She feels their pedals sink between her fingers, leaving nothing but dried carbon
"Grab these lavender thorns and shove them into my wrists
Maybe I'll feel something different," she yells
Her liquid runs across her skin, starving for more
She continues to slam those twisted stems further into her arms
"Oh god, oh god, oh god," she repeats internally
Wondering how long these newfound scars will take to blossom
Little does she know, cutting through her own skin will find no flowers
Yet she continues to wail