My cup runneth over with your words of sweet admiration. I placed your spilled love in a jar with your name on it. I have shelves upon shelves of names on jars. But I put yours on my bedside to illuminate the shadows of memories gone by. They’re less scary that way. Your love be …
You plucked my pretty petals and I haven’t been the same ever since. I threw caution to the wind for you. I sinned for you. I lay down for you and I cried for you. But oh how I loved you. You stained me with a love so sweet, I forgot what it meant to …
It always comes back to the rose. Red or white. Stained or pure. A metaphor for love or pain. The beauty never subsides but simply coexists with the thorns.
Was it when I showed off my body in a way that would make the church cry? Or was it when I told you I would be there for you and you took that as I would be there for only you? Was it when I said “I don’t want another to love me”? Or …