I’m your dying rose tonight.

-

I’m the thorns on every fresh beauty you’ve held

I’ve worn bloodstains against the green

As they tore your into your flesh

I’m the splinter that held on, unseen,

And rankled, digging it’s way into your heart.

I’m the faded petal on the ground that you will never see

I’ve been crushed and broken and ripped apart

As you bruised and trampled me;

I’m the wilted stem that screams for blood

In a painful acknowledgement of your presence

As you’ve healed by wounding me;

I’m the blackened red in your existence

As dying roses tend to be,

The dried-blood petals falling as far as it is

From the fatal flowers to the ground;

I’m the agonizing scent of no-longer-this

And the lethal cry of muted sound.

-

You’re so beautiful tonight.

-

But I am still the dying rose,

And the dark petals on the ground that you will never see;

I’m the thorns that ripped your hands, bloodstains against the green;

The splinter that tore your heart in two, the wilted stem that screams;

The black red in your life, the perfume of this-still-is-agony;

There’s the pain of blissful misery, knowing I’m with you

Every moment’s heartache dear to my heart.

A shelter from the rain of blood dividing “us” to “you”

And still my petals fall as you – always beautiful –

Tear.

Me.

Apart.