Thorns

her face-paint was smeared when you walked away,
shaking your picture-perfect head in anger;
your hand had traces of white and crimson in lines across the palm.

                [so much for an innocent night of fun, brilliant costumes;
                so much for the hours she spent making herself beautiful]

and you always said sorry
and she always believed you.

you'd whisper into her ear as you traced circles into her back:
i don't know what happened,
i swear it'll never happen again,
oh i'm sorry, oh-so-sorry.

and she wouldn't meet your eyes
                                                          [because she knew it was a lie]
so you'd tilt her head up to yours
and promise so sincerely,
pressing a rose into her hand,
closing it tightly
cutting off her circulation with the same clenching grip
that held her heart in submission.







and i watched quietly as those vases filled up,
rose after rose after rose
and pretended it wasn't me with the thorns stuck in her palm.

but the bent bottle caps under my bed,
the sea glass bottles you made to encase my heart
tell more about us than i care to remember.

our story is one written with broken glass and jagged edges,
always beyond repair,
always sinking into my skin and leaving scars.

but i keep turning the pages
to see if somewhere along the line,
you'll show up again,
saying sorry,
meaning it for once.

looking me in the eye and
handing me a rose without thorns.