Cracks, Thorns, and Roses

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I asked the cracks on my forehead, graciously accompanying marks and bruises,

“Who did this to you?”

There’s no reply, it just spreads, cracks further down to the side of my eyes. My eyes begin to water but my will still holds strong for a reply.

The scar, as stubborn as the parent, stays tenacious and splits further down, then in an odd fashion, sideways, marking its territory.

I still stand strong, adamant on getting a reply.

The battle continues and eventually, I break.

Upon my surrender, the scar turns to me and whispers I deadly undertone,

“You did this to me, you. You gave me away to someone else. You thought it was okay to be scared in love, it was okay to be left writing and screeching with a torn heart and muscles, with a few pulled hair. Because you’re never too broken, there’s always a better morning, with lies and promises you’ll readily believe. But, look where your love brought us. A silent, standstill. Where you’re just a rose, hoping someone will overlook your thorns and accept you with the love you lost.

Well, nobody will do that, because as poetic as it sounds, it not what happens. You, YOU, pick out your thorns, you don’t let yourself crack. And before you fall in love with someone who spreads cracks in the floor, choose the underground and fall for yourself. Because darling, did everyone ever buy a rose with thorns?”



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If you had a palette,

Of colors dark and bright.

And I were to be

A painting of your dreams

And fears, all alike,

How would you paint me?


Would the strokes be gentle,

Like wind ruffling through the leaves,

Or bold and cold,

As a tide clinching a wavy sea.


Would it be bright,

Like the sun’s first ray.

Or pale and murky,

Like the moon making its way.


Would you draw me,

Like every other canvas, you framed,

Or would I be absolute,

Your heart taking over your mind, day by day.


Would I be just a painting,

Ready to be sold,

Or a whole, a masterpiece,

For your eyes to behold.