Black rose

Someone gave me a black rose,
It still had every thorn.
The drops on it weren't of water,
But blood from my heart torn.
It had as many petals,
As there were cuts into my skin.
And the sadness it had seen,
To describe I can't begin.
For this rose was made of sorrow, Of my anger and my pain.
All my saddest hopes and dreams,
That I can't quite explain.
The rose was cold as ice to touch,
It froze you to the bone.
But the cold was just a reminder,
That I was so alone.
And so I'd add more petals,
And the rose did grow in size.
Until there was near nothing left,
Just that which I despised.
And so I made the final cut,
And now I want to tell.
The person who gave me that black rose,
I hope they rot in hell.