The Roses in My Garden are Dying

Does it ever feel like you're living mindlessly?

You know you have air in your lungs, and yet, you can't take in a breath.

At times, and, more the most, it feels as if your body is not your own but a skin you have to call your home.

These roses, 

they give me breath.

They are all that keep me going in this forsaken world.

Each time I think that maybe I can feel the softness of their petals, it happens again.

I naively prick my wondering fingers on the thorns that life calls "normal hardships"

I am living among my roses but I can't take in their sweet aroma,

and it feels as if the garden is a sweet and beautiful facade.

And I don't know how to escape.

I thought I would like it here. 

I was told I will like it here.

And, why not, right?

It's beautiful.

Life.

Although I am overwhelmed with the scarcity of doors to walk through.

Not one in sight. 

Day after day, cut after cut.

Bruises, thorns, and pricks and blood.

It hurts. 

And I want to leave,

this, mesmerizingly, terrifying place. 

But, I can't.

I don't know how.

And I'm very much tired.

So please,

let me leave this beautiful garden, 

where my roses are dying.