Roses are red, but I know their deceit,
Draped in perfume to cover the reek.
Petals so soft, yet their roots still decay,
Wilting like promises left to betray.

How many have sung such sickening hymns,
Wove me in ribbons, pulled me in limbs?
Smiling with daggers tucked under their tongue,
Swearing forever, yet leaving me numb.

You plant your words like burial rites,
Lush and beguiling, a maze of delights.
Yet I hear the soil whisper and groan,
For even the garden can swallow its own.

Do you take me for prey, some sweet, willing thing?
Something to pluck and hear how it sings?
A delicate bloom to be crushed in your hand,
To wither, to worship, to break on demand?

I have danced in catacombs, dined with the dead,
Worn grief as a veil, draped night on my head.
I have loved shadows that whisper my name,
And kissed the abyss when no one else came.

So coil your tongue in honey and lace,
Press silken lies to the edge of my face.
Dig me a grave in gardens untrue,
But do not forget I won't be waiting for you.

For thorns do not beg, they do not forgive,
They bury themselves in the ones who still live.
And when the bloom is nothing but dust,
The thorn remains; it feeds, it rusts.