She was a rose with her thorns grown inward,
basking in her own layered beauty to bury the sea of insecurities and self-saboteur.
The pain she feels is unspeakable.
People believe that if you prune a few things from your personality,
relinquishing certain aspects that hinder serendipity, you’ll be free of toxicity.
Being uprooted is certainly easy,
but the niche you seek after is of utmost importance.
Like a weed, immune to weedicides, these feelings spring back.
They brew with a vengeance, a lethal vendetta against the spec of yang she carried around within her.
She’s gasping for air while drowning in the sea of melancholy.
Rains of anxiety and doubt flood her mind,
brewing with an uncanny familiarity, strengthening the thorns of depression.
Their prying grasp around her, worsens daily,
causing her to feel suffocated.
Suffocated by the life she leads.
Necrotic to the world around her,
as she withers away, slowly to the debts of the Earth,
She returns from where she once came.
“Back to the darkness, back to the earth.” She whispers into the wind,
“Maybe someone will come in my place, to lead a more meaningful life that I have.”