Why? Because okay?

I thought I was done with this.
I thought we were done with this.
We let the past get to us like sugar,
Like it's ice to our wounds that heal the broken parts of our hearts.
We make it okay but it's not,
I know it's clichéd but when were we ever okay?
These voices speak to us and we keep listening....
Why?
Our hearts are the pages to books,
We let people write in them,
Scribble on them,
Rip the pages out and throw them away.
We let the tears flood our eyes like it's normal.
And let the cuts become scars like it's okay.
Our skin, like the canvases we create art on,
But instead of art we make scars,
Instead of beauty we make messes.
Our feelings are like precious roses,
Unpredictable.
If not cared for we wilt and our petals fall.
If not watered, we change.
If we are cut from our stem and gifted we can't go back to our rose bush.
We simply die.
Why?
Because we let everyone throw away the pages
And we let everyone pick us from the rose bush.
But me?
I will no longer supply the pens or paper
No longer will I be a rose to be picked but a thorn that tells you not to touch.

Anonymous