My scars and cuts are roses
Sprouting up in
Various shades of red pink and white.
With vine like lines wrapped around my wrist
Eerily uniform
Parallel
Linear.
My arms are home to a lovely garden, one I tend to well.
Planting new rosebuds with my razors
And watering them with rubbing alcohol.
It stings and burns
Bleeds and relieves
Blood blossoming in pools
Decorating the porcelain sink
Some of my roses are wilted,
Soft petals are faded,
I trace their soft skin
With my sharp edge.
A lightfooted and fanciful dance
With twirls and spins like those of young girls in new spring dresses.
