do not call me a rose, no matter
how romantic it may sound
i am tired of being picked
for someone else's pleasure.
i am tired of being given away
by the ones i wanted to keep me, and
i am tired of being tossed out
the second i start to wilt.
toss me out if it is too hard
to water what you promised to love
and don't visit my garden
if you have no intention of working on
what could have been
beautiful.
do not call me a rose,
if i bleed through cracks in the sidewalk
like weeds that adore
being trampled on. though it's cold i have
something to wrap myself
around, something a bit more permanent
than companionship.
if i am to be anything,
call me a venus fly trap. i will suck the life
from whatever comes near me
before i feel the sting of one more bee that
doesn't find me pretty enough,
soft enough, enough for them at all. hate or
fear me but at least then i
won't have to apologize for the blood on your
fingertips when you prick yourself
on the thorns you never bothered to remove.
but i think i wish
you would call me
anything.
anything at all, so
i don't feel weak
for wishing
on nothing
anymore.
