Bed of thorns, vacant flowerbeds,

Flowers plucked and torn, your loyalties shed.

Flower crown of spikes, flower crown of thorns,

Wicked wicker-weaved words swarm. 

 

I'm selling secrets a dozen a bundle

 

Leaves fall, flowers die.

Your crown of thorns, a holy high.

 

Crown of thorns, harsh against the skin, 

"Because I love you," scratches, digs and festers again. 

 

A pillow of secrets, your blanket of lies,

deep cuts,

I don't cry.

 

Once so innocent, this flower child no more.

Red halo, 

horns,

thorns,

 

A warm welcome sore.

 

I'm selling crowns a dozen a bundle,

brown flowers wilt.

"I love you," you say.

But with your words you fumble.

 

Sharp Bouquets spark a blaze,

The flower child ignites,

can't meet her gaze.

 

Because I love me, we shouldn’t be a chore.

Roses are for love not for “sorry,”

At least not anymore.