I've never felt a red rose,
never pricked myself on a thorn,
never smelled it in or got lost in eyes.
My mother has a red rose -- my father gave
it to her, and it is beautiful, and it is kind, and it
is loving, and it is something I have  never  seen.

This  pink  rose  is  something  trying  too ­ hard to be red.
Slashing and  ripping  at clothes  with  sharpened  words,
claiming it’s  merely  the  thorns  of a red. This pungency
is blamed upon  me:  I can  not  handle  the  sickly sweet
succor stuck under my  suffocating  nose. He holds  me
by the chin, condemning eyes borrowing into mine, grip  
tightening. This pink rose is dead, withered, wilted
and weathered by the storm we’re caught in.
Everyone sees  red  where there is none

--  o r   p e r h a p s   t h a t ’ s   j u s t   t h e   b l o o d  ?  --

this pink rose has me trembling,  fearing
his appearance and his eyes; knowing
he’s   stronger   than   me,   but   the
uncertainty of “would he?” scares
me more. I can’t leave because
that same knife he used upon
me, he threatens his own
skin. It’s such  a  small
world, such  a  small
town, such a small
neighborhood,
such a small
building.

I can’t walk these  halls
with  comfort  or  safety
anymore, not with those
eyes burning blame into
my    back    and    face.

Looking at the world
through acidic eyes.
Thunderstorm kisses,
pouring through dark skies.

Bands of rage and temper,
feelings all caged in.
Powder keg explosives,
blowing up again.

Black and blue circles,
hid under the cloth.
Red drips from my nose,
broken at all cost

Ripped down at the seams,
by every human thread.
Abandoned and afraid,
wishing I was dead.

This abuse is without visible scars:

the coppery blood
is that of a broken heart
pooling around me,
craving to drown me
even as we join as one --

the throbbing bruises
are that of spoken words
sprouting like flowers
seeking to consume
even as he spreads me open --

the suffocating broken bones
are that of the fear
filling my lungs,
burning my nose like acid
even as he kisses me --

the deafening tears
are that of threats
ringing and screaming inside,
stealing any other sound but him
even as he makes me laugh --

the blinding black eye
is that of isolation
wrapping tight ‘round me,
sewing my eyelashes together
even as he glances my way --

But you can’t see it, so is it really there?

You greeted me with your smile.
You greeted me with your kindness.

I started to really fall for you.

You blinded me with your love.
You blinded me with your care.

I started to really love you.

You pushed me on the bed.
You pushed me against the wall.

I started to really resent you.

You broke my arm once.
You broke my heart many times.

I started to really hurt inside.

You cut me with your words.
You cut me with your fist.

I don't want to bleed no more.

The time for words had passed
I don't even remember
what was said.
Who said it?
Hold up, hold back,
too late now.

My weight holding him down.
His throat griped tightly between my hands.
My mind grasping blindly from the hate.
What now, what next,
I've crossed a line.

The hate that made a handle
of my opponent's larynx
is muddied.
Muddled with guilt but strengthened by fear.
Let go, let loose,
the fight has left him.

Yet still I hold,
fearing more the next opponent I face.

Beginnings of pain
And the suffering of one,
Started early for one so young,
Terror in innocent eyes
A* punishment for nothing,
Rained down fists fell hard
Dead I wish you were, ******** forever in my eyes

This mountain is tallest when someone is on top.
Tucked an olive branch in a fire,
threw my heart in a file and
I don't feel bad at all.

I keep aspiring to **** myself,
and I can only tell a handful of people.
I can only tell people who don't care.
I can only hope nobody minds.
I can only wish and wish.
I'm so sick of violent people,
and violet eyes and knuckles.

I don't feel bad at all.
I am a final boss and a bad guy,
and a villain and an entrepreneur
in the science of self-exploitation
for nobody but nobody I like.
I'm sick of hearing white girls sing,
and yell, and talk in high voices.

I'm sick of chains and strings and people.
I'm sick of songs that say nothing.
I need revenge, but mercy so selfish,
so counter intuitive.
Must feel like common sense.

They were small, not what I expected from a soul like you
They were bruised and scarred in unusual places
This intrigued me, I thought could tell a lot about you already
I traced with mine around the folds and lines of yours

But yours soon got too big for you
Although small in size, they grew with force
I no longer wanted to trace them, touch them or see them
I wanted to push them away from me
Like a hot iron being pressed against cold flesh

You enjoyed it, I could tell from the grip you had behind them
Squeezing out every ounce of fear I had in me
I panicked, trying to use mine in a feeble battle against you
You won, and with that, I realised how yours were so different