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Flowers in the Attic

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Every time you speak another piece of my heart is torn outside of my ribs. Why do you do it? Why do you continue this way? It was necessary, you said, for these decisions to be made. I don't see how my life is worth it at all anymore. I'm stuck in the abandoned basement, waiting and wondering. Sometimes you come. Sometimes you don't. It's completely inconsequential to you, whether or not we live, if we're here at all.

You see, but you don't look. Why don't you look? Why do you never once look? Every second longer I stay up here, more and more of my life is torn up in lies. Devil's issue. Even you won't love us; you, the only one left to the job. Up here we've turned to animals; raging, deprived beasts that die slowly as the heart beats on. Dead inside, but forced to live.

It's a land of rules; rules impossible to abide, though we're forced to anyway. I haven't seen the sun in ages. Life grows outside these walls, walls I'm trapped within. The room of death. The touch of Midas. The only thing suffering amidst everything flourishing. An hour, two years – what difference does it make? We're just flowers, flowers shoved up in the top of the closet left to die.

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