Roses

Every once in a while, you decide to offer me a rose.

That special , thorny as hell, rose.



You know how I love that rose, it smells soo good. Deliciously good.
And you know that I always hurt myself whislt grabbing thy rose.



I don't care. I'm used to that feeling.
All I know is that, from you, I can always expect the same gift,
That I masochistically love.



Most people would get sick from getting the same thing once in a while,
for several years.



Maybe I should also be tired from such routinely present.
Maybe next time, even if I get hurt from the thorns once more,



I should slam it at your face. I should ferociously rub the same thorns,
That hurt me year after year, at your face, that always held a fake smirk.



I should shout at your ears, 'till they bleed, demanding for a new gift.
Wouldn't matter if it was a rose. I love roses.



But I want a rose whose thorns are made out of cotton.
So it can heal the wounds made years before.