Though roses are romanticised,
My version is not.
You are a rose.
At first, you symbolised love,
Blooming the brightest in a meadow of others.
Your thorns were blunt, your stem was tall.
You seemed safer than the others.
But, after awhile,
My fingertips blacked with the strongest poison.
Your insides were poisoned,
Appearing a beauty on the outside.
Looks are deceiving.
I mistook your crimson petals for love rather than a sign of danger.
YOU ARE READING
Bruised
Poetry"You poisoned me with your potion, Hexed me with your love and devotion. Now I lay in pieces, broken and brittle." Bruised is a poetry collection for the broken hearts and disappointed souls. It speaks words of wisdom, words of pain, and words of ad...
