when roses ain’t red

maybe afraid
that once your thorns tasted my blood
you’d feel obliged to let your perfume come to surface
and turn red,
or maybe too in love with your own kind
and fearing a virtual addiction you might have grown
to my touch,
you denied me your thorns,
not understanding that
i wanted not your death,
i needed not your blood,
– though i would have worn with pride
a rivière of wounds
tattooed on my skin by your pungent defenders –
i only wanted to touch you.
to feel you.
to probe the depths of your scent.
but you see, i’m not a Wilde nightingale,
and although each rose is unique,
the bush is full of lovely-smelling singularities –
and i’m not afraid to reach out for another one,
even at the cost of a little blood.

© Liliana Negoi

2 Responses to “when roses ain’t red”
  1. yelena says:

    can feel it. truly moving, Lilly, your words always reach for the depths~

  2. John Jackson says:

    Exquisite. The subtle storyline comes ’round to a satisfying end. A memorable piece of writing.

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