The Roses Are Lovely

You are soft and comfortable.
You are not for me. A bed
of needles, a tiger's eye,
a bruised, shredded flower,
my hair undone, dark & brutal,
a razor slit, a sharp, short cry.
I am damaged material. This is
the burning horse's back I ride,
the hunting wolf whose unforgiving
fangs are mine. Stay within
the confines of the garden,
they say the roses are lovely.

No comments: