from Grandma’s rosebush, eagerly
admiring waning beauty of
burgundy to delicate blush.
Reaching for another,
she instead held with force, desperate for life,
knowing she would not thrive without
sturdy stem, with roots held deep within ground.
As blood flourished and flowed across my fingertips,
I was sorry for the pain,
her rough thorns tearing innocent skin.
And then,
I realized the rose was me –
pretty appearance, tough exterior,
fruitful, flawed and fatal;
Both wanting to be loved, but
not knowing how
to trust in
forever.
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