what draws you near? is it the fragrance that
happened to waft by you, or the deeply carmine
colour that beckons you to come crashing on this
shrub as a siren song? you’re aware of the prickles,
yet fail miserably in your gentle quest to pluck a
blossomed flower. your fingers bleed, fertilizing
the soil once more. you discard the rose, and take
your absence, pressing your fingers into your palms,
seeking first-aid.
