i hold no rose-tinted illusions
of how my life will write itself
i'm not a rose or a daydream
no, not as intoxicating or sweet
i am not warm sunshine and
i can't paint you blue skies
my tongue isn't honey and
my conscience isn't pure
i am none of the things you could call pretty or demure
no, i am the smell of old crinkly books,
dusty and lingering
i am anti-depressants and beat poetry
empty cups of tea and crumbs from a cookie
i am grey mornings when it's too cold
to leave the covers, the slow sting of *** burning in your throat
i am a Del Rey track and perhaps a Taylor Swift one too
do not compare me to a summer's day
i am neither "lovely" nor "temperate"
i am the sum of every shortcoming
and every strength
of every smile i've given a stranger
and every filthy insult too
i won't tell you to take me as i am
because i'm not here for you to take
no, what i say is
don't call me a rose
and forget that roses wither
and have thorns too.