The vines make their way between my thighs and waist
Filled with tears, thorns begin to sprout
Stabbing my sides, every which way
Where do I go from here
Where do I turn
As if I was a broken stained glass, once admired but now feared, pitied, and disposed of.
As the vines inch close to my breast plate it halts
As if to take its last breath before plunging into my heart.
Tears begin to trickle down my face as I stare silently at the thing that has placed the vine around me.
Ah, this is what betrayal feels like