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Apr 2018
He was like a blooming rose.
His words scattered with thorns, captivating, deadly.
A beauty dressed in scarlet, floral masculinity.
Pricked with manipulation, bleeding as his petals fell.
Tears hitting like bullets, promises shattering like glass.
Alas a rose is just a rose, and flowers never last.
Even though I may end up bleeding, he still wipes it every time.
Britney Lyn
Written by
Britney Lyn  23/F/Michigan
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