Even now
I realize my life has fallen victim
To some sick metaphor
At this point I'm called
Not by my given name
But of that of a flower
Rose
And for me,
Many times,
Love has come and love has gone
And I burn for the things I have done
I am douced in the flames of infidelity
But I've seen the flowers burning
It's common,
When love dies,
To see the image of fire- set to the lovely petals
roses
So then, why,
After love has left me yet again
Should I be surprised that I'm burning still?
I don't know what I'm trying to say but if Rose is going to be my archetype and not just a nick name then perhaps I should be more accepting of my new role in this narrative- nothing more than a wilted flower.