Wednesday, 10 July 2013

A Bed of Roses

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,
held fast by prickles,
sharp, painful memories.

My skin, fair, rent, bleeding,
trickles of ruby-red,
like rear drops,
they hurt too. Like memories.

Every piece of clothing,
I've tried to wear,
is torn apart,
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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