These pores on his fingers eclipse florets of roses, forests of corollas stitched softly together and lathered with sweet honey. You seem to forget the blood and ichor, you seem to forget the shadows entangled between dawns.
But darling, don't we all forget — that every petalled rose has a spine weeping with thorns.
❝ WE ARE ALL FOOLS YOU SEE, UNTIL WE REMEMBER HOW LIES ARE BORN. ❞
YOU ARE READING
WICKED HEARTS
Poetry❝ WE ARE ALL THE BAD IN SOMEONE'S STORY. ❞ do not copy. all rights reserved ⓒ 𑁍 blue rose awards | first place in poetry & second place in unknown story
