It’s the people we love the most, the things dearest to us, that binds us.
Chain us down.
Floral wreaths of love they surround us with, in order to protect us.
“Protection is a form of love,” they say to you.
Roses of pure white blossom on these wreaths, symbolizing the uncontaminated love they bestow upon you.
Thorns growing for the pain they inflict upon you.
They do not realize the moment those vines of love begin to hug you tightly, suffocate you.
Do not see the thorns digging in deep, tearing through layers of skin, causing blood to trail down.
You sit powerlessly, wrapped up in rosy charms, letting the course of things flow.
Powerless not because you lack the strength to get up and break those chains.
But powerless because you cannot bear the heart-wrenching sight of those petals of love scattered about you.
A horrifying reminder of the colorless chaos your rage led to.
So you sit still, letting the blood flow and drip.
Staining those white petals.
The love, no more pure.
And so while they exhibit you as an obedient, speechless creature,
They choose not to see the bloodshed.
Art – Oamul · Miss Moss