Not All Roses Are Red

Not all roses are red

And not every rose has its thorns

But I’ll prick my fingers on every one of yours if you promise to be there to kiss my hands

You see, I’m not a romantic

And I can’t remember the last time that I picked a flower, because I can’t kill something so beautiful

But oh, I could not help myself from trying to uproot you

And you couldn’t help yourself from tugging on me

But you forgot that prying too deeply will end up giving you more than you were pulling for

And there isn’t much satisfaction in picking up something already uprooted, but there is more in being the one who takes care of it and admires it

So I guess that is what you wanted with me

You just forgot that I’ll wilt

And I forgot what it’s like to wake up and smell the roses

So the unfamiliarity got the best of me

I hope that instead of being thrown out, I’ll be pressed into a page that you leave open

 

Not all roses are red and not every rose has its thorns, but goddamn does the beauty hurt

 

~Megan

 

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