Wounds and Roses

a wound is a wound
is a wound except
when it is a scar,
when it is a memory
when the roses never
bloom, when the roses
are all old love
and puling petals
nothing is as it seems,
but we pretend
as though a caress
is always caring
as though wounds
only ever bleed,
as though roses
are always soft love
gifts given to be tender
despite their thorns
and their own death
that lingers like perfume

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