to dissect a rose

what will become of you? 

i ask, head in my hands 

drowning in feeling 

absorbing every thorn into my skin 

what will become of you? 

i ask, scattering the petals 

abandoning feeling  

punishing it for the grief it has caused 

what will become of you? 

footsteps echoing in an empty room

walking 

a tightrope between worlds 

whatwillbecomeofyou

whatwillbecomeofyou

whatwillbecomeofyou

whatwillbecomeofyou