Analysis of Birthday

Morrow is the day ;
The day of my birth-day,
Every year at the end of May,
I could never celebrate my birthday.

I woke up early,
I felt a little melancholy,
Losing all the strength I had like a withered petal holding on to the flower,
Trying my best to not collapse.

A glimpse of that whited sepulcher;
Whom I killed brutally.
The shade of his appearing on this day,
Making me shiver endlessly.

A glimpse of his ichor dripping,
His expressionless blue face,
Looking at me without a sense of fear,
My trauma brought back to life again.

It just keeps getting worse each year;
Birthdays I could never celebrate.
Still seeing his shade wander,
Waiting for me to surrender.