the rose i loved
didn’t whisper sweet things—
it screamed in silence,
bit into my palm
and drank me.
the tighter i held,
the faster i bled.
my love made it sharper.
my tears made it bloom.
sadder my life gets,
like watching my own shadow
walk away from me.
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i’m drowning—
not in water—
in red,
in memories that taste like metal.
i need affection like oxygen.
not words.
not lies.
just a hand
that doesn’t hurt mine when it holds.
i smiled once.
but now?
what’s dead
doesn’t bother to die again.
the cuts this rose gave me
are stitched with silence—
and silence doesn't heal.
one day,
i’ll grow a rose
with no thorns.
and if this world won’t let me,
i’ll make one
out of steel and starlight.
it won’t cut.
it won’t leave.
it’ll just be mine.
i smile now,
not for what is,
but for what will be.
i bite down,
sit with the ghosts,
let sadness braid my hair.
but i wait—
still.
quiet.
ready.
one day.
my day.
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