I woke up one night
And I cried:
"Papa, I don't want to die!"

It is so sad when I look
To that child of the past-
Long forgotten and still
He weeps.

I am but a feigned rendition
of the boy inhabiting this soul.

We are so different
As oil upon water.
Yet how can I say
I was never him?

As now nothing
Seems more sweet.

That delicate snowflake
Fell into streams
Long spent, and yet
I sent for him.

Little did he know
His ending was not in death.
But he cannot be found.
Silent is the child's cry.

A rose's beauty is highlighted by the pain of its thorns
without the needle *****, the softness of the petals couldn't be as rich
sharp enough to make sure, you never miss
handle her, hurt her, disturb her
Squeeze onto her so tight, break then curve her
meanwhile, she was doing everything right, you thought you owned her
but being enamored doesn't translate to possession
possessive obsession, your toxicity closed her
to the world, to the void in which she internalized
all the subsequent shortcomings can be traced to the day
you decided to villainize, the sweetness of a budding romance
the natural pull
insatiable lust
unimaginable thrill
but now that landscape is draped in shame and tucked away
the rose grew thorns because she saw how the other flowers were destroyed
hardening of the skin in an effort to contain joy
the innocence of a child, the truth of a smile
the words echo through her mind
"don't trust a boy"