I’ve heard you ask to turn my black roses red
I know you're reaching out, but you don’t see
My roses are not red, white, or even black
I have ashes where my roses used to be

In my field of paper flowers
Nothing is as real as it seems
And though I hold the petals in my hands
They only float away on the breeze

You know I don’t intend to be so cold
But for reasons I just don’t understand
When I try to return the love you give
It burns to dust in my frozen hand

In my field of paper flowers
Nothing is real, as it seems
For my roses are not white, red, or black
I have ashes where my roses used to be.