Dead Wild Flowers

I spent the week away pondering.

You. Me. Life.

It’s heard to breathe when I am caught in the hurricane of you, let alone understand that I was drowning. This time I understood it wasn’t my fault that you were forcing me under, but it was my fault that I had stopped fighting. You fight for me, but not with me because you would rather just walk out the door. Next time I wont stop you, because the ache in my heart when you leave is growing dimmer with every piece of blame you’ve piled on.

I deserve more. I spent the week away, learning how not to miss you.

I’ll still be that sweet girl you love, but it’s time you learned how to coax the syrup from a lady rather than drinking her dry. In an age of easy loving, I led you to believe I did not need to be wooed. I got too used to picking myself the flowers I love so much. Never could I imagine the dull ache a droopy set of wildflowers could eventually bring. Now the chill of fall allows us to recess into our lonely households to wait out the winter with mediocre love until the passion of summer can awaken our fires again.

But for now, I’m tired, so learn to love me right or leave me alone.

The more I say those three words, the more I mean it.