Murderer

I held a wilting flower in my hand as it told me how I inspired it to die; how my words resonated with its symphony of pain and echoed out a toxic lullaby I held the wilting flower in my hand with a lost voice and helpless eyes The roots were dry and I pleaded for life But the petals withered, Inspired to die. I held a dead flower in my hand as its thorns dug deep and scars ran wide My hands, stained with red Still reeked of shame, but the blood that trickled, wasn’t mine.