Her lips were as innocent as a flower.
She didn’t know the taste of pollen,
She didn’t live for the rain.
Butterflies left colored streaks inside her,
They were the reason for her smile.
Posessive winds twisted her hair into vines;
They began entangling into her,
They strangled her.
The vivid streaks turned gray,
Petals turned to poison.
And for a moment,
She thought she was the cause of the loss of her sunlight.
Oh dear little flower,
Those were not butterflies;
They were bees and you
Were not the honey they wanted.