Flowers are for Headstones

You make me feel as though the ground has escaped form underneath my weak, small feet that carry me.
As if it mattered, -I never noticed when my eyes were always drawn to the stars instead of the ground that kept me safe.
I was always told my head was in the clouds as if that was an insult.
For I was supposed to wince at the sound of a youth with aspirations too big for her shoes that were a size 5. But you made me think that down to earth was more my persona anyways.

So I moved my castle in the clouds to a home in the soil.
But when my roots grew too deep too quick a vine ran up the side of my body like the ones on old buildings that cleverly mask the beauty of the architectural foundation.
-And when you left no one was there to cut the vines down so slowly, painfully, my lungs didn’t fill with air they filled with vines and flowers that slowly suffocated me.
Despite the pain and humiliation I would have hoped you acquired, instead you crowned yourself king of what you described as a rather beautiful death.
-flowers aren’t as pretty in lungs as they are on headstones