Insulting drunken conversations
lead to mass confusion
internally in me.
I am a toy at his disposal.
Too available.
What kept me sane
now drives me mad.
Boys get scared.
Men deny for fear of pain.
I accept for fear of loss.
I am the desert rose.
The black, red lined rose.
I am destined for solitude
till I am stumbled upon by him.
The rose that is so dark
and ridden with thorns
is fragile and weak.
Beautiful yet damaged.
Intimidating yet meek.
Rare and unique.
The boy who found her
plucked her out of the sand.
Worshiped her at first.
Flaunted her.
Praised her.
Suddenly she was kept secretly.
When he truly loved the rose
he hid her.
He had never loved
a rose this dark before.
He plucked out a few petals.
He shaved off a few thorns.
He hung upside down to dry.
The rose is brittle and breakable now.
Ashamed of his care for such a unique
rose he crumbled her back into the sand.
Desert roses are born of sand.
Next time man touches her
she will disintegrate in the firm hand.
She will return to the sand from
where she came.
Never to be touched by little men again.