All Used Up.

She was a flower, a beautiful flower.

The kind you dream about.

The kind that stands out in a crowd, in a field.

The kind that is so wonderful you would not dare pluck her from the dirt.

The kind you see and smell but never touch.

But then the wrong person comes by.

Steals her grace from the earth.

Grabs her by the stem and yanks her out by the roots.

Stuffs her petals in between the old pages of a book.

Leaving her to dry up, drain of color.

She is left in the book to rot.

Forgotten, till shes All Used Up.

 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741