I should be more original with my words.

I should describe my blood

As a thick, viscous crimson,

Fleeing from my heart

And onto your hands.

Or I should describe winters

As a bestial claw, gripping my neck

And dragging me away from you.

I should compare my actions

To a pulsing circulatory system,

Rushing about in circles

And living within a pattern.

And I should compare you

To an invasive pathogen,

Seeping your way into my circles

And disrupting my patterns.

If I had the perfect words,

I might describe the optimism

You gave me

As a paradoxical drug–

Promising to heal,

While tearing away at my insides;

And I might compare my idiocy

To an addict who cannot get enough.

But I cannot put the indescribable into words,

Just as you cannot tell the truth.

I can cope with a metaphor,

But all the flowers in the world

Would not conceal the smell of rot

From a corpse that lies beneath them.

The blood was just red.

The winter was just cold.

I was just stuck.

And you were just lying.

I knew that,

But it needed to be more.

I needed you to not be like the others.

I needed you to be original.