You left me in the desert of my own thoughts.
Climbed over my fence skillfully on a wet day and plucked my so cherished flower.
Who don’t you see me the same again?
How filthy can I look before the sight of my lover?
Aren’t my petals brightly coloured?
Isn’t my scent blissful to your nostrils?
Why can’t loving be perfect?
Where else do ‘happily ever after’ exist except in fairy tales?
Why can’t angels fall in love with demons? And who says nuns and strippers cannot be related by blood?
A pope, I hope you tell the part of our story where you turned me into a cassanova
My clothes! I don’t remember where I kept them anymore.