Petals

The delicate petals of a rose,
Smooth and rounded,
Are the crimson red of freshly-spilled blood.
Its frailty masked by vicious thorns.
Thorns that hurt and rip and tear
Thorns that coax out the blood
Hidden in our veins.
Yet, for all its armor
The rose can be torn itself,
Ripped, shredded.
It’s all an act
Because the rose is weak.
It needs care
Love and attention.
Receiving none, it withers,
Shrivels and dies,
Helpless and alone.
But the rose can feel, too.
It knows when it’s broken
When it’s alone,
When it’s dying,
But a rose cannot shed tears.





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