A black rose blooms.
Shortly afterward,
Someone picks it and removes
Each petal, one by one.
How does the rose feel?
How would you know if it
Feels nothing at all?
Everything has feelings
No matter if you think
It's alive or not.
The black rose someone is
Picking at is my heart.
Slowly, little by little,
it's being torn apart
By a man who doesn't
Understand me at all.
He thinks the things he does
Is for my benefit.
Little does he know
He's tearing up what little heart
I have left.
My heart is now black
And dying.
But no one cares.
It's just something that
Can be picked at
And thrown away.
You hurt me.
I hate you.
