These hands are
From handling the thorns
In your rosebush,
Too big for the
False yellow petals
Protuding from your
Thin stems,
Breakable by a breeze,
Stained red with my blood
From the promises you made,
That your thorns would never
Prick me again.

But you’ll stretch into the light,
Making a meal from the luminous,
Languish loftily,
Bed of roses,
Seducing any other
You can contort,
Blind with the promise
Of red petaled roses,
Hoping these new gardeners
Won’t ask
How they got their coloring.

Revise the mulch all you want,
These wounds on hands don’t lie,
Their weeping resounds
With every drop that spills from them,
The poison of your
Self-defenses deafening
The slowing of this beating heart,
Making nothing of me
But fertilizer
To grow your fragile stems


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