You gave me a rose - a fragile thing ; a glorious gift. You told me to treasure it as that will be the last time, the last gift I will receive from you.

You told me to wait, but I don't wait for love. Why should I wait? When it's there right in your hands. That grasp it. Not told in words. No poem. No script. That three worded sentence - I love you.

Love doesn't wait, if you wait it may be too late. It can also be poisonous. A darkness. A void - shadows that lurk and grab you by the shoulders.

This rose rots. It is no longer fresh; vibrant and pure. It's shape a carcass - reminiscent of a dead crow. This crow was cruelly hunted - shot and blood spilling.

Petals crumble. You crumble, falling to the ground, curling into yourself. You crave safety like being in your mother's womb again. Soft and delicate.

You poison yourself. Thinking is this what love is? Not being able to live anymore without them. Thoughts are just burdensome. A bottomless pit of shadows; a darker self creeping in the black.

I wake up, feeling sick. Nauseous and dizzy. To realise poison flows through my veins. I see you , curled in on yourself - stillness in your bones. I question myself with the dagger in my palms. Love is dead - rotting away.

You are the dagger in my palms - the blood in my body, the blood inside of me. In veins. You are the wound - just like the beginning of our story. Predicted and needed.