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Jo Baez Jun 2016
I've always been the fool,
Whom walked through bodies of gardens with hovering hands.
Touching petals with the tip of my fingers till I picked the prettiest rose.
Blooming in the garden of the ugliest inner rib cage.
Impatient hands forcing the fold of fingers.
Grasping mistake after mistake again.
Till my eye caught the glistening black of aesthetic beauty at the ends of your throat.
Arm stretched, down the mouth of the abyss.
Finger tips caressing torn petals,
Thorns settled into my skin.
I pulled the scarlet blood rose out your throat and I fell in love with the withering.
They say that no one loves a flower when it withers away but I loved you.

— The End —