Roses at the foot of my bed
All the thorns bleeding ink,
My mother weeps in the room next door
For what she has lost in the winter,
For what remained come the spring.
My bones creak and tremble within me,
The only sound that could still echo in this house
I am a wraith in this place, translucent and trembling
Heart like a casket, but empty,
A ghost of a girl remains, trapped
Inside flesh and sinew, with tragedy
Hidden in the marrow of her.

Roses at the foot of her bed.
The thorns bleeding ink.
The petals falling off.