i’m not naive enough to compare myself to a rose,
whose soft petals and curves prevail beyond its thorns.
i’m not a flower.
i’m not sweetness,
or supple colors,
or life.
i am a mess of stems and spines, sharp angles and twisted roots,
and i will damage those who get close enough to touch.
i am senselessly cruel,
and sabotaging.
an aimless collection of failures and secrets,
****** towels and bruised knees.
i am four in the morning,
thrashing and screaming and weeping.
i am waking up still drunk,
i am an ache that never passes.
i am love, but not the wonderful kind.
i am selfish vices,
i am indulgence and self-denial.
and sometimes,
as the light of morning appears,
i can’t imagine what i’ve done
or where i’ve been.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 8:46 PM UTC
i’m not naive enough to compare myself to a rose,
whose soft petals and curves prevail beyond its thorns.
i’m not a flower.
i’m not sweetness,
or supple colors,
or life.
i am a mess of stems and spines, sharp angles and twisted roots,
and i will damage those who get close enough to touch.
i am senselessly cruel,
and sabotaging.
an aimless collection of failures and secrets,
****** towels and bruised knees.
i am four in the morning,
thrashing and screaming and weeping.
i am waking up still drunk,
i am an ache that never passes.
i am love, but not the wonderful kind.
i am selfish vices,
i am indulgence and self-denial.
and sometimes,
as the light of morning appears,
i can’t imagine what i’ve done
or where i’ve been.
