You place a rose in my hand to

tell me you love me.

It blooms, a single rose;

luscious petals of red and pink and hues in-between.

The folds and intricacies, the frailest branching veins and roughened stem.


It ages.

Softness becomes dry and crisp beneath the pads of fingers.

It rustles together, sheets of parchment with your words of love imprinted

on blossoms that stick together in the dry, stale air.

I watch it everyday.

Through the smiles, the laughs, the moans and whispers,

the tightened holds, the anger, the confusion, the lies and the tears

you litter across my bedroom;

desiccated, broken petals of faded pastels and trust I take back and

hide from you.

The thorns draw beads of blood whenever I touch my flower.


I place a rose in your hand to

tell you this is dangerous, and that I can’t love you.

It crumbles, this single hunched rose;

jagged fragments of petals stuck together in the heat of

hot breath between us.

The cracks, the disappearing veins don’t trace the fragile openings.


It has aged, beyond repair.

The stem a dried, rough twig in my palm, I hold out

to you the dusty blossoms that fall straight to the ground.

It’s light, incredibly pale and thin and cold today.

One flick of my finger breaks it’s stalk in two; one for both of your hands.

Thorns scratch your palms, twisting lines on your skin;

scars that remind you of the flower you brought me

and what happened when you let it degrade.


Time dragged its sticky corrosive fingers over it.