this confession is not just a bouquet of wine-red roses freshly bought from the florist shop across the street. it is akin to handing you a gun and giving you the authority to shoot, even if you don’t want to, even if you can’t help it. instead you gently put the gun on the ground and your eyes mutter a soft farewell before turning and leaving. what shocks me the most is the silence that hangs in the air, that threatens to suffocate me, that is ironically, deafening.
sometimes i wish you’ll just shoot me instead.