Black Rose

You're thorns are cutting into me. At glance it's a prick, then with words, it's a cut, and with a hug or a smile, it's a wound. Open, bloody, and unfixable. My body is laced with these wounds. Open gashes of the heart taking shape in the form of something so beautiful and natural. I need some stitches, something to piece me back together. And every time I believe that I'm almost done stitching, you go and do it again. Get out of my mind, my life, my heart. Roses all have to wilt eventually, so stop blooming and wilt. Before it's too late to sow up any wounds, and all that's left is this limp, bloody, torn, and wronged version of what I was before you planted your roots in my solid ground.