bleed

die

bleed you

/putrid/

flowers.

stop spreading your

sunshine,

(thick like butter on toast)

we

don't

want

you

here.

(where we can sense

taste

hear you)

stop coloring our

gray black

lives

(if you could even call this hell a life)

with your

crayons.

we

(by that I mean all of me)

don't want

your

color (no matter its beauty) in our life,

so just….

go away.