Spring had come and showered it's love, for creatures like us. For us to bloom with happiness and idyllic. For us to feel the aroma in the breeze. It brings a happy harvest of flowers, that finally bloom after a period of harsh cold. It's a period of the year, when the air is mingled with butterflies, leaping from one blossom to another and satisfying their thirst. The spring marked the beginning of my tragedies, my rebellious nature and the arrival of petite butterflies.

Butterflies are to me, the personified version of the man I love. They have no reason to love, except for beauty, and sweet nectar. These creatures appear to be the most prettiest, are greedy. They do not understand what love is, they do not understand what care is. They do understand what a flower is, but they do not understand it's meaning.

Paper is pretty, prettier are the words,

My darling is prettier, prettier than the stars.

Blue is the ocean, blue is sapphire,

His eyes are bluer, prettier than butterflies.

Red roses to greet him are pretty,

But stand no chance against his lips.

Red hue is prettier, prettier with his lips aligned.

My darling is prettier, prettier than anyone alive.

Something like this, a song, I sang before. The sight still pieced my heart like dagger. The flower was ruined of love, devoid of attention. Killed by my own deity, my fate had forsaken to overthrow me into the hands of despair. Yet life lies within me. Butterflies as lovely, nothing goes against the saying, but flowers are the kindest, they perfume the hands that crushed them. But, dark black, rooted spirit of vengeance, seeks you. The flowers are the kindest yet still in giving the most beloved death.

Shallot runs down the stairs, not caring of ruining her newly created dress. The ballroom was flushed with people, yet she found her way out. Her hands clutching on to the piece of poetry, she wrote while she longed for the presence of her lover who had gone away to some foreign land.

She could not withstand her merriness and did giggle on her way to the fountain like a toddler. But soon turned into a disaster as she saw the view infront of her. The man whom she had devoted herself to, was devoted in nourishing someone else's lips. Her lips parted in shock as her eyes remain fixed onto him shameful kissing another woman infront of her.

The paper was crushed under her palm as she turns her back and left. Tears are only shed when it's despair, not malice. She tears her pendant which he gifted her before leaving and throws it on the floor allowing passersby to crush it with their ego.

Sitting in her carriage hurriedly, she rushed to her mansion. On her way, she kept staring at her diary, upon which was written his name. In the heat of her anger, she tore down it into pieces like a madman as she wept tears of betrayal.

To describe the depth of hatred, had I jumped into the poisonous sea. Found it void and dull and gloomy. It makes me wonder, then what is hatred?

Hatred, the word sounds extremely familiar. My soul resembles it crystal clear. Looking deep into my own soul, I found a tiny little bud awaiting to bloom.

The bud was violet, like royalty. It was deep-rooted in to the floor of my heart. Which I happened to think had become barren and lacked emotions to make it bloom. Yet, with each passing day, I felt the bud bloom. It bloomed and bloomed into the prettiest blossom. It represented the darkness of the night.

It was so pretty that if kept out in open, butterflies would come to wreck it. But what did it represent?

No love had made a blossom bloom this pretty.

It was beautiful, it was gorgeous, it looked liked nature's blessing. It bloomed in my heart, I was the owner. I do believe it is deceiving.

"What is the reason you want to break the engagement for?", Shallot's father, Mr. Thomas Vitale questioned.

"I had seen us as a couple, yet I never found it joyful to hold his hand. Father, if you refuse to grant me my wish, I fear you might lose a daughter."

Shallot's word did not match her expressions. She looked still like she was in love. In love with that man who broke her heart. But she was not a lady to weep about it to anyone.

Her father told her to leave and come back later. Guess his daughter means not a thing to him. Shallot had become used to be devoid of love. How much would it eventually hurt her then?

She was too old to wait for months for her wish to be granted and not very trustful of her faith to keep her patience. If he cares not, then so does she.

...Lilies that wither away with the cold,...

...Words said to make a creature bold,...

...Love that captivated me and kept me on hold,...

...Money that matters more than my tears of gold....

...Curses to those who treated me like a doll,...

...Held my strings and made me play the role,...

...Of a ****** tribute not for the sake of my soul....

Shallot rode a horse across the fields of lavender that her family had owned. It was beside a lake and situated on the outskirts of the town. She loosened her brown hair as the wind flushed by. It was twilight. Pink-orange rays of the sun penetrating the clouds fell down on her face making her look like a fairy.

In her hands she held a purse which contained all the poetry she wrote while she was in love. She then walked near the lake and emptied her purse as the handwritten papers floated on the peaceful surface of the water. She slowly traces the water surface with her finger-tips before jumping into the luce warm water. She submerged herself deeper and deeper until she felt that her breath was taken away.