You used to tell me that I had a way with words, that I could string them together so they would bloom on my tongue and when I was done I would leave a trail of roses behind for you to enjoy, but these beautiful words that I spit from my mouth don’t bloom beautiful things, they bloom wilted and ugly and dying flowers that have lost all of their petals and what life they had left was choked by the weeds that sprang up and wound their way around those wilted flowers and covered them up and held them there when all they wanted to do was die, but they have to stand proud and strong while their petals fell until all that lie left are a trail of weeds that ate everything and a trampled road of roses.