Does knowing me lead to loving me less?

When you first met me, did you love me? did you need me? were you happy?

I invited you into my garden because I knew you loved beauty

I let you sit by the pond I made and stare at the flowers I planted

I watched as you walked closer and closer then far past where I wanted

You stepped inside my house when I invited you to watch the flowers in my garden

When you stepped inside did you find the flowers planted unfairly?

Did you find the pond a conviction with no pardon?

The more you know me, the less I believe is pretty and the more I feel as my garden is a ploy thrown connivingly

When you decided to leave, did you run through the overgrown path or did you look closer and see that there were thorns all along?

Does knowing me lead to loving me less?

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