Roses don’t remind me of love,
they remind me of blood.
They remind me of a portrait of hell,
of a person being stabbed,
of a knife being twisted.
They remind me of purity, that is,
purity lost; white roses slowly getting speckled with dirt,
Children getting dusted with hatred,
A knife being twisted,
into a soul.
Roses are red, most of the
time, but sometimes they’re
yellow, like the intense Sun
beating down on you,
sapping your strength till
you are left empty.
They are pink like the girls
who made fun of you, like the
naive child you were, like the
weak person you still are.
They can be lilac, like the delusions of grandeur which
you still hold near, like
the pompousness in the step
of your boss, like the arrogance you see daily.
Roses are red, most of the time,
and then, they remind me of blood.
But sometimes, they aren’t,
and even then,
they don’t remind me of love, but
of negativity, of hatred, of the time
you threw the roses I got you down three floors.
So I guess, roses don’t remind me of love.
They remind me of you.