I am lying in a bed of roses,
everywhere I turn are there thorns,
my skin is torn,
my hair is tangled,
and now I dare not move.
Each strand of hair
lies wrapped,
caught,
held fast by prickles,
sharp, painful memories.
My skin, fair, rent, bleeding,
trickles of ruby-red,
like rear drops,
only,
they hurt too. Like memories.
Every piece of clothing,
I've tried to wear,
is torn apart,
exposing,
the weakness of my nakedness.
I'm lying in a bed,
a bed of sharp, sharp rose thorns,
I cannot move,
my hair is tangled,
my skin is pierced
and my clothes are worse than useless.
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