Withered Rose

You don't need me as much as I need you.
You think so,
That I'm a disposable fall back crutch.
Maybe you're right,
Maybe I am dying for the wrong person.
I can try not loving you,
But I can't not love you.
So that was the problem.
Unrequited love,
Couldn't have been more painful.
Pain is good,
It is an addiction to me now.

Is that the way I think I love you?
Or am I holding on,
To a rose long withered,
But the thorns just as sharp.
And I'm still bleeding,
I'm still clutching.
Faint scent still there,
My only consolation.
Yet an orchestra of colours,
All around me,
But I am blind,
I just hold on,
O' withered brown flower.

I can look away,
But I can't let you go,
On an island,
Vast oceans all around,
I stand looking at an empty well.
All dried up,
Caked with mud,
Meshed from tears and blood,
And not one drip yours.

So what do you call fair?
That you love me?
But not that much?
That you needn't tell me?
I Love You.
What a burden it is to say.
A release for me,
Yet a weight you needn't carry.
You're too busy saving the world,
Miss Can't-Do-Nothing-Wrong.
Not in anybody's eyes,
And especially mine.
You tell me that I could,
Pour my sorrows unto you,
That you would listen.
How gracious,
Would it matter not,
My sorrows flowed from you?
And you know I would die for you,
Why don't you let me?
Time and again,
I've pondered upon,
My bleeding hand,
It's the rose,
I know.

But it hurts just as much,
To let it go.