Why do you keep counting it all?

Repeating ever so persistently

All I am made up of is torment

My head is despondent

It'll burst into wilted, fetid Azalea and Nightshade

Do you really want to tear me open?

To see the rotten and broken things inside of my vial?

Then, just look thoroughly to your hearts desire

I'll suffocate under a dreary sky that rains fragile lacerations

Will my body still be useful?

If not, you can dispose of me anyway you wish

Every part of me is just shattered memories

Memories that float, and fall, and break, in lesser fragments


I want to become something more


Something more invariable


Something of use


What am I?