Toxic Rose Bush
Spring.
From the seed a bud emerges.
And I am there to witness.
With care and love,
the watering-can tilts,
spilling onto it
the light showers
of my hope and passion.
With it,
my sweet promises of forever
nurture your growth.
“Will you stay with me?”
Your soft, uncertain voice rings clear.
“Of course.”
My own voice whispers back.
We promise each other
a long Forever.
I love you.
Summer.
You flourish, my love.
A dazzling temple of roses.
Beauty like yours
cannot be compared.
My love, I swear my life
to you.
A gardener as myself,
only lives to serve the rose bush.
I love you.
Fall.
You begin to fade.
Striking colors of red,
wilt to brown,
withers away,
and fades to dust.
But I am still here;
your gardener.
I still see your beauty.
Isn’t that enough?
I love you.
Winter.
All that is left are thorns.
Sharp, prickly little things.
They pull me closer,
hug me tighter,
pierce through my skin.
What was once a beautiful bush of red
is now suffocating daggers
of yearning.
You want your beautiful colors back
and you’re willing to use my blood
to paint your fallen petals.
Please do so.
If it makes you happy,
I’ll give you my everything;
my power,
my passion,
my body.
Because
I love you.
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