A graveyard

of red roses.

Once a beautiful bouquet,

but rage conquered reason.

I hurled the bundle

against the walls

of my chamber of isolation.

It was a delightful disaster.

Twelve roses laid

crushed on

my carpet.

A graveyard

of red roses.

And instinctively,

I was frantic to rescue them.

My muscles were controlled

by desire to protect their vitality,

despite the hypocritical position

I have placed myself in.

I understood

that their thorns

would result

in both blood

and scarred skin.

I gathered

the fallen flowers.

I rushed them to an

intricate glass vase.

Submerging them in water,

my limbs ceased

to tremble.

Validation accompanied

a superficial sense

of self-necessity.

I spent the duration

of that blurry night

paralyzing my senses

and deafening my thoughts.

Anything to silence

the trouble lingering in my mind.

 

Comforting the distressed

and placing another’s

welfare above my own

was not a “selfless” act for me.

The abyss in my chest is gaping,

as I continuously attempt to fill

the emptiness.

 A graveyard

of red roses

now stands erect.

Mottled with stains

of my blood.

Maybe someday,

with emphasized ambiguity:

another will guard me

in the same way

to which is my second nature.

Even if self-indulgent motives

lie behind their actions.

A graveyard

of red roses.

It was me who destroyed them,

and I will restore life once again.

[S.S]

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