You are a rose,
a wilting rose of the past.
With sharp thorns guarding you,
no one never found out the true you.
I came in and clipped your thorns.
Unable to defend yourself,
you let me in, filling my head
with your twisted stories.
I should've known you lied.
I should've seen your petals falling
with each lie you told me.
But I was blinded when
I cut your thorns, believing
everything you ever said to me.
Another petal drops when you say,
"I've never told anyone this..."
I lean in closer, thinking your thorns
cannot hurt me anymore.
Somehow, they've come back.
Digging themselves into my heart,
my mind, and my body. Blood drops
on your petals. No one will notice.
Your petals are a dark shade of red,
the kind blood can be hidden in.
While you are a wilting rose,
I am a dead rose, no thorns,
no petals, just a piece of the earth now.
YOU ARE READING
Standing
Poetry"I choose to believe there are more than three stages in life. For me, I say there are five." Eva Longsten was crumbling, but soon she found life was easier when you were breathing. She was holding onto who she was until she realized releasing he...
