Flowery Language

It woos women
uses force
takes prisoners.
It smears itself in cream-colored paint,
lies down with sweet-smelling blossoms,
and begs to be picked
like the roses it sways next to.
Unlike roses,
this has no thorns,
it roosts in a glass vase
cultivating its escape
wondering when it’ll be needed again.
Cream turns to blood,
coating itself in the wounds
the lies have only just split open;
desperate to close them
relishing the change of color.


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