I was a rose
Turned black with decay
Until my petals fell to the dirt
And I stood naked
In front of your audience

I was a rose
Watered with vinegar
Fed with cyanide
Loved by your ego
And broken by your hands

I was a rose
Torn from the roots
Cut off at the stem
Dead before I was alive
And rotten before I was ripe

I was a rose
Stabbed by my own thorns
Bleeding from the inside
Draining my crimson color
Into your palms

I was your rose
Painted black by your lips
Brushed to dark perfection
My expiration date long passed
As you sniffed my last breath away.

I was your rose.

if a poet falls in love with you,
you can never truly die.
your lips would be spilled out,
along with perfect puckered lies.
there's always something to love,
even as you sleep in a bed deep underground.
everyone will know what you were made of,
even if you're nowhere to be found.
you are the living breathing poem that all poets need to thrive,
so if a poet happens to fall for you,
you can never truly die.