Roses

It was blood on my hands. Sticky. My blood but still... sticky. It was dark when I walked home so I couldn't see the rose bush.

Roses are strange. At a glance they seem to love you. With there poise and there grace. But they're hard to get. Only when you look closer do you see the thorns.

I tripped. I was never good at walking right or straight or anything. They cut into my hands. I didn't cry though, I wasn't good at that either.

Roses are like people. Some tend to be in groups but most end up alone on someones grave or a vase left to rot. After a brakeup. Love is funny that way.

I washed my hands in the once white skin. Stained now. Here is when I cried. Now is when I mopped up my face and hands.

Roses are like people. Pretty, hurtful, lost, lonely.

Roses are like people.

Because they always die.