I hate you.

Peeling petals off a dead daisy is how I'm spending my Saturday night. I'm beginning to see why being high in the air sounds fun without take off or flight. Hates me, hates me not. There's nothing more beautiful than flowers on the ground. But this flower is like we are: dead, and the greens been replaced with brown. On the verge of tears and laughter combined into the mirror I wander. Why would ya make this girl cry in the sun? Much less into her slumber. So I'm no longer held and no longer compelled to fix what's been broken so long. Not only is this flower brown but call me recluse if I'm wrong.