I went to a florist in search of magic:
the perfect flower.
Everyone yearns for one
with crisp edges and a sickeningly sweet scent
I found you.
At first, you seemed like a rose.
The perfect grades,
the inquisitive smile,
the way your cheeks flush a rosey red
whenever you speak.
Every doe eyed girl fawns over you,
forgetting that you have thorns.
But if life is this metaphor
and everyone is a flower,
then you are a weed whacker.
Cutting out every Lily, Orchid, and Peony
who has ever cared about you.
If life is this metaphor
Then you are as fake as those two dollar carnations
and as nasty as the decaying flower
drooping on your windowsill.
Someday somebody won’t fall on your thorns.
They won’t lie in a pool of their blood
wondering how one person can cut so deep--
They will see that you are nothing
but a facade.
Your edges will rot, your petals will fall
and nobody will be there to pick you up.