She was a flower in a field of glass,
but her thorns were sharper still.
If you held her for too long you started to bleed.
Yet I couldn't let her go.
The pain was too sweet.
She had emeralds for eyes.
The curves of her stem were perfect.
But her roots were too deep in the glass.
Her pedals were sweet smelling,
but her leaves were razor sharp.
Her scent was a beautiful poison,
her colors were bright and exotic.
She was dangerous, and I loved it.
Beneath the glass was concrete.
The city was her home.
She bloomed beneath the bright lights.
She yearned to grow wild and free,
she wanted to sprout among the other flowers,
but she poisoned them all,
and her roots could not escape the pain.
In the glass were mounds of bones,
of those who held her too long.
Their blood helped her grow,
but also made her poisonous.
I long to taste her again,
yet I know she'll never taste the same.
The scars on my hand will never heal.
And I don't want them to.