When I picked him, the prettiest rose in the garden, I had dug his roots from the rich soil, as slowly, he started to wilt.
But then again, he had been the most vibrant out of all,
the deep red like the silk draped across a king's bed.
And, God, those sharp thorns, pricking me until I bled velvet onto the petals of a bloodied rose, the shades of maroon mixing into each other; acrylics hugging each other in motion as they blend together.
I had plucked him from his garden bed, because all things that are beautiful must be tainted at some point.
Only, this time, I was decaying in the process.
YOU ARE READING
BOYS
Poetryto: all the boys who have broken hearts and left dry stars in their wake.
