on our first date, you brought me flowers. a whole arrangement of the earth's most beautiful offspring. you presented them to me with a pristine white satin bow, whipping them out from behind your back like a magician, and i was dazzled by your tricks. i rushed inside to put them in a vase, but not before i pressed my lips to your cheek.

the flowers continued, white lilies ghosting my nose as i inhaled them, the complementary white bow still perfectly tied in place. although you've pulled the bunny out of the hat a million times mr. potter, it still amazes me just the same. the lilies had been my favorite. they had been the last before everything went wrong.

the first time you hit me, it was peonies. it was just a light slap, but the shock of it all made me sob, heavy weeping as i draped myself over the counter, my shoulders shaking as you slinked out of the room. you came back with a bouquet of gorgeous pink peonies, although the bow wasn't the same. it was more of an off white, or maybe an ivory, but i was so wrapped up in sorrow to care. yet you came up behind me and produced a flower from behind my ear and i swooned.

the next time was really my fault. we were fighting, about nothing really, it was just stupid, i get why you get jealous of my guy friends. anyway, i tried to leave but you wouldn't let me, grabbing my arm so tightly that i sharply gasped, your fingernails digging bruises into my arm. so i smacked you. not too hard, but it was the disrespect of my hand slapping the cheek that was so chiseled it could cut thorns of the prettiest of roses. you didn't like that, so without a thought, a right hook landed square into my fragile jaw. you got me violets that time, bound with a grey ribbon, the shades of purple intricately blending with the new bruises that now blossomed across my skin.

hundreds of red roses would lay across my coffin, red as the blood that poured out of each and every stab wound. my casket had to be closed because the flesh wounds were everywhere, and no one wanted to see me in such despair. but i was in that stage while living, living with you. you killed me. you laced up each of the dozens upon dozens of roses with black silk in preparation of my death, and then you stabbed me thirty seven times all over my body. if one were to count, they would sickeningly realize that there were exactly four hundred and forty four roses. twelve groups of thirty seven.

no one allowed for flowers to be placed on my grave, and as my body decomposed, rotting into the earth, i helped fuel the buds that would soon turn into mother nature's prettiest children.

i died for them to thrive.