Poetry

They are just flowers.

My hands are scared from the fake roses, bleached red with stains of before.
Locked into what could have been and what was.
Because the rose though sweet, pricked onto thin skin, permeable to letting in things like ‘I care’ become reference for love.
Preoccupied with not warning the heart and mind to feel and decide.
Like that. In that order. In the way hearts become clingy and needy.
We need to let others into the the ugliness of broken
Which defines us for what we feel so intesely.
Unknown yet familiar like rain onto Eaths’s cracked skin.
Open for eroding emotions.
Open for winds that change the form.
From the start we reveal the small parts, sharp ends, rude pieces of glass
That contained the roses we thought were symbolical, that they were love.
But they are just flowers.

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