The Roses are Dying

Just like my hopes.

Looking in the mirror is such poison. But I can’t help but do it, and as I do, I notice that the weight gain has gone directly to my stomach and to my face. And it’s all I can see and as the roses are dying I start to cry. The roses were for my birthday; a day that’s supposed to be a celebration of life. And yet here I am hating every ounce of what mine has been reduced to and wishing desperately to regain some control.

The roses are dying and I empathize with them. To be in an environment that stifles your ability to live; to have carried on for so long that you physically cannot anymore, but yet must put on a pretense as your head droops and your heart breaks.

It is Friday and my hopes are dying.


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