Beneath the Undiluted Petals
I stemmed from the roots
Of the classic, white rose
Of given privilege that
Unexpectedly grows from
Cursed middle class soil
Where prayers turn into sins
And everything that stems
From that rose grows with
More than a few thorns

“Every rose has it’s thorns” or that’s what I’m told
But nevertheless, like the adulterated rose over time I grew I grew
To desire my slow combustion
To cherish each stinging tear that ached to wash my apathy away
I became attached to each one of my thorns
Each factor contributing to my downfall
And the thorns grew and grew until I was buried too deep
To find the pristine rose contained beneath

The thorns break skin and rise blood to the surface
But each tear brings soothing relief
The thorns damage for a reason each prick represents fates decision
Or that’s the sinister message my mind creates
When I say one too many words or take up too much space

Eventually the rose shrivels and begins to die but the thorns they stay
And move up in size masking the once praised petals lying beneath

I seize the barbed disguised shape that has become my reflection in the mirror
Frantically searching for the clean thornless slab of skin that won’t appear

The rose drops it’s final petal
Sighing in disgust as other self doubt forms into yet another vicious thorn

They continue to pierce
My disintegrated skin
Until I am nothing but a
Mutilated rose
Once beautiful and pure
Now shattered by pain
That was more than
Well deserved.