The red rose
red as the blood gushing out
freeing itself from the veins
freed by the thorn
that protects the naive petals
pricking the flesh which touched them.

For me you were my thorns
but the strong, powerful, protecting thorns.
Robust yet so tender
safeguarding me from the demonic spirits
the spirits that touched my vulnerable soul.

Buried next to you
are the memories countless
which will bury along, but never die,
and the red rose which sits on your grave
a bittersweet emotions in your embrace
as the rose, dead too, still there it lies.

Prompt by Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Prompt #64 Ya’aburnee

Both morbid and beautiful at once, this incantatory word means “You bury me,” a declaration of one’s hope that they’ll die before another person because of how difficult it would be to live without them.



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