She stuffed roses in her mouth to suffocate the lump in her throat but the thorns tore her tongue.
Wine is tasteless and love is empty.
Memories are stored in a box of sharp objects labeled “danger do not open”.
Her fingers tremble as she holds metal to cream, drawing with crimson.
Blood is warm and cozy when there’s no hands left to hold.
She stuffs roses in her arms to hide her pain but they bleed sweet reds.
A friend is a foe and a lover is an enemy.
She’s delicious and tempting, they slice away greedily until she flinches at their touch.
Numb, groggy, lost, with claws inches into her spine.
They say home is not a place but as she peers at the bare walls of all she knows it feels that nothing else will ever feel safe again.
Sour tears bubble through her eyes and burn her cheeks, sleeves soaked with snot.
She stuffs roses in her eyes to hide her sorrow.
Why play games with knives and guns?
Living like tomorrow is promised when it could be taken away in a split second.
Turning a blind eye.
When her life is cut short because of all the thorns she swallowed then maybe they will see how little they knew of love.
She chokes on blood and rose petals and they watch with a smile because of how beautifully tragic it is.
Inhaling hungrily the smell of rose oil seeping from her mouth, her eyes, her hair, her neck soft as the petals.
It’s killing her but no one asked, the discomfort, the pleading in her heart all unnoticed.
Another slice and bit by bit she fades away.
She bares her soul on her sleeve and yet they don’t know a thing about her.
Only that she tastes of roses.