I always said I wanted to feel something deep, even if it meant a cloak of pain or a blanket of despair. I lived in a state of comfortable normalcy, haunted by the contentment of my life, desperate for the scent of lilacs to fill my nostrils or a jagged blade to cut through my body. Well that flower came, in the shape of a lanky boy with a beat up truck. I was wrapped up in the arms of warmth and excitement, experiencing new sensations, tasting new lips. It was as if I was a beach ball that was always missing a little bit of air, and suddenly, it was filled to capacity. I could taste the sweet nectar of the earth just by breathing in, smile lazily as I pumped gas. I knew one day our grass would yellow, the flowers would wilt and crumble away. But I wasn’t thinking about that; I was too busy basking in the sun. The flowers did not have time to wilt, however. They were ripped from the ground, plucked without a second thought, just as I was getting ready to water them. It was someone else who plucked them, someone else who destroyed us. But it was you who refused to sow new seeds. I kneel, sharp knees stabbing the rocky soil, fingertips bleeding from digging, waiting for you. But you told me you weren’t coming back. Why am I still hoping you’ll come back? You told me you weren’t coming back. Why do I still have hope that you will? I want to squash this sliver of light swimming inside me, but every time I reach, it escapes my grasp. I knew you for only a few turns of the calendar page, I’ve lived so many happy years without you. I do not need you. I am independent, I am strong, I am beautiful. I am too good for you. And I know this. I know this with my whole heart. But that doesn’t mean the bleeding will stop. I press the wound on my side, plastering it with tape, glue, string. But it keeps bursting open, even when something sticks for a brief blissful moment. Our flowers were cut once before, a pair of sheers slicing our hearts, but a small purple bud remained. You took this bud in the palm of your rough hands and nursed it back to health, let me rest your head in the crook of your pasty white neck. And with that, the sun grew warmer, the bud became a blossom, we became a garden. It was small, yes, and there was much to plant, trim, grow. But I cherished our little garden. You did not. When the storm came, when the tires ripped up our greenery, I grabbed for that same beautiful bud. I had it in my hands, clinging on for you, for us. You looked at it gingerly, pale blue eyes wild with fear, and you took it once more. But this time, you did not return it to the ground. I watched as you crushed it in your dirty fingers, a purple liquid dripping from your knuckles and pouring from my eyes. You couldn’t handle the threat any longer, and that I understand. But I hate you for it. I hate everyone for it. I must forgive those who ruined us, because they hurt me in the name of my happiness. You hurt me in the name of yours. I know you are scared, and I know you shouldn’t have to live under the threat of an even worse storm. But you will have your own troubles, and you will face them alone. Our garden may have been destroyed, but I have pockets brimming with seeds, water to moisten the rough soil. What do you have? Not me. Not much at all. And you’ll regret that. I wish I could go back and warn you before the wind knocked us down, provide enough shelter to keep you from blowing away. But I cannot, so I swallow this lump in my throat, and spread my seeds elsewhere. I know you will find someone to bathe you in shades of gold, give you more of herself than I could. But let’s be honest, she will never be half as good as me. I now dance in the purple liquid, feet muddy, tongue stained with the color. But just as the dripping ceases, a clear rain comes down, washing me clean of your touch. I laugh, the water cleansing me, spreading my seeds around a new patch of land. The buds of a new future have already begun to sprout, the new hopes whispering their soft words of encouragement. I have stood up from our old rocky soil, knees still bleeding, but wounds subsiding. You will sit in your own pile of rocks, while I build a house of bricks. I see you from the corner of my eye, watching my white dress sway in the wind. My eyes moisten, but my heart hardens. I keep my head forward, you disappear in the rear view, and I walk on.