Spring is the Season of Tragedy

Spring is the Season of Tragedy.

The pink blossoms, ripping my heart to shreds. The bloody tip of my thumb is climbing your neck, aiming to rest just below your jaw.

Smile, precious one, I’ve always said to you. Pretend that I’m the most darling amongst all these pretty flowers.

Your lips are trembling. Is it fear? Is it disgust? Does that matter?

No, maybe not. Since just like how easy it is for me to fake a laugh, it is just as easy for you to  manifest false happiness.

I don’t need to pretend, you’ve always said, lies swimming not unlike those melting ice when springtime arrives. No beauty can ever compare to yours.

Blinded by the hatred underneath your soft tone of voice, the world erupts in delight, its sound grating in my ear.

Following you, my lips can't hide its tremble. Is it anger? Is it amusement? Once again, does it even matter?

Love is toxic, at least for us. Honesty is nowhere in sight, you already tried locating one. Love is toxic, especially for us.

But does it matter, if it's about us?

Sragen, 30 September 2022

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