Roses are red, yet I recoil,
Soft things wither, sweet things spoil.
Petals fall with a fleeting sigh,
No bloom endures, so why should I?

So tear them out; let ruin spread,
Let earth reclaim what once was red.
If something lingers, let it be,
The thorn, the scar, the jagged me.

Would you still reach if I won’t bend?
If every touch is war to mend?
I am not made for hands so light,
Not meant to bask in warmth or white.

Plant me deep where shadows creep,
Where echoes hush and sorrows sleep.
Where longing carves its name in bone,
And longing learns to stand silent and alone.

Yet should I bloom against my will,
Should something tender haunt me still,
Then know it was no fate’s decree,
But something wrested, torn, set free.

So wilt, if you must; I will not plead.
But if you stay, if you still bleed
Then tread with care, for thorns still ache,
And what still clings was meant to break.