You run back to a dark rose,
Adorned with brown thorns and glossy petals,
Your coarse hands try to pick the delicate flower,
Only to watch blood flow from your fingertips,

Letting her ***** and permanently scar your skin,
The damage leaves more than just an imprint on your body,
It allows your soul to become numb,
To the world and all the other beautiful flowers,

Especially the sunflower,
Blossoming right behind you,
Warm and bright,
Radiating happiness from its golden-stained petals,

Yet drooping, from the shadow your back casts,
Wilting a little more when you reach for the dark rose over and over again,
That sunflower perks up when you look at her,
Especially, when you touch it softly,

Even if you leave it tainted,
With traces of red droplets,
From running your scratched, bleeding and marked fingers,
Upon its smooth frail petals,

That sunflower waits patiently,
Never scorning nor, lashing,
Hopeful that one day,
You may pick her.