My mother told me to fall in love with someone whose smile made flowers grow in my lungs, but how was I supposed to know that the only flowers that you planted in me were oleanders that burned me from the inside out. Loving you should’ve come with a sign because every time you told me you loved me it sounded like you were saying that I didn’t mean a thing, but with a wild heart and beaten ribs that are broken cages, it’s easy to fall in love with anything, isn’t it?

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