Dead Roses Veil
The days stretch out, wrapped in a gloomy, romantic Gothic haze. I wander those endless green roads, lined with towering trees, letting the air brush against my face as I dream and hope for a future brighter than this heavy now. A future where this aching present dissolves, where my past becomes a distant echo, not something still holding me here.
I step outside myself sometimes, watch from a distance—the girl with a sad resting face, deep and romantic, lost in time. Draped in black, her clothes delicate yet melancholic, shoulders exposed, dark brown curls grazing her skin like whispers. She isn't like the others, not in an arrogant way. She just feels more, knows more, even if it sometimes feels like a curse that controls her.
Emotions too strong, too raw, too much. She carries them like a weight, almost unbearable, thinking often about the one who will help her hold them, the one who will share all this love that seeps into sadness. It’s strange, this age—this space between girlhood and adulthood. Everything feels so deep, yet fleeting, as though the weight of life is already pressing in, but you're supposed to have it all figured out.
But she doesn't, and the cost of feeling takes too much. So she locks her emotions away, lets them rattle inside the cage between her ribs, safe from the world, safe from herself.
It’s poetic, in a way—this slow unraveling, this quiet destruction. She drinks from the well of her own sorrow, not sad, but devoured by feeling—too much feeling. There’s a certain darkness in the way she hides behind the smoke of her cigarette, the bitterness of black coffee curling into the night air like a spell. She writes because words are the only release—speaking would shatter her. No one could bear the weight of what she holds inside, it would drown them, like it drowns her. In her dim-lit room, shadows dance to the sounds of Fiona Apple and Lana Del Rey, because they speak the language of her tortured heart better than she ever could.
She wasn’t even sad. That’s the worst part.