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You always brought me roses
as if that made things better.
Their petals bruised as easily as my skin,
and you noticed their bruising more.
I told you, once, the reason why
I love roses too much.
You smiled and kissed my hand
then forehead
and, still smiling, said
"That's so sweet, love."
My dad cultivated roses when I was a child
and when my brother bought the house,
the roses stayed,
all but one bush. Which
just happened
to be the bush that produced my favorite roses.
You cut me roses fresh from that park,
and I remember smiling,
and kissing you.
I didn't realize you took this as an invitation,
nor did I realize
some people see sex as a bargain.
The commonality of roses
when I was a kid
made many people laugh when I told them
roses are my favorite.
And many told me it was a cliche.
You didn't.
You brought me a single rose,
but never gave me your name.
Even though I already knew anyway,
I kind of wish you'd told me
so I could've kissed you.
You told me I was your "winter rose,"
I thrived in cold weather
and wilted in the heat.
I took this as a compliment.
Apparently, it's only complimentary
to tell girls they are like a flower.
Boys think of this as insulting.
Even when it's true.
You were my favorite,
and you never gave me a single flower.
Only your time.
(And a stick 'n' poke tattoo of a rose
that fit between two fingers on my right hand.)
I bought myself a rose yesterday,
and thought how much I miss
the idea of receiving flowers
from others.
But it's never really done very well for me.
True fact: Roses are my favorite flowers. So a poem about them is long overdue, I'd say.
Each number is a new person. One of these is inspired by a real experience, another by my family. The rest are totally fictional.

Full title: Allow me to tell You a Story all about Roses and the Boys that Bring Them to Girls with no Hearts left.
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Submitted on
October 18, 2014
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