She said she
had never heard
of roses; she had thorns
stuck to her spine.

We would walk in circles
through the garden here,
looking for one to see;
but all she had to know
was this stinging in the back.

And she wouldn't scream
from lack of blood; white shirts
came off white and clean.
No, its not a look
that takes down towers;
not a smile that destroys a bridge.
There's nothing to scream
so much as to whine.
She would pick through
daffodils and dandelions,
and sometimes she's holding
cauliflower, looking for a thorn.

No such flower as the one
that brings you so much trouble love;
and don't you know when its gone
you'll have this tiny scar
as meaningless as this prick
that won't get off your back
even if you can't believe
he still exists.

-e.


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