Who Painted Our Roses Black
Who Painted Our Roses Black

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machala
machalaSlow progress is still progress
Autoplay OFF  •  a year ago
I opened like two rose gold, French gates leading into a pasture of flowers and dew. You opened like the parted sea, roaring with waves of things you’ve held back and body’s you sucked in.

Who Painted Our Roses Black

I kept the first roses you ever got me, just seven months after he was born. I let them hang. I imagined them trying to lift themselves upright. I thought they were gasping, suffocating.

I imagined how you held me on top of the world, upside-down and suffocating. I let them dry up to use as bookmarks.

I guess it made me feel like we were in a different place at a different time or maybe not even in the same world or maybe not even together at all.

Their petals slowly pulled themselves apart, kinda how the strings that kept us together did.

I use a lot of things to compare my life to, I guess that’s because I don’t know how to explain it another way. Something of its own.

How do you explain something, how do you describe something that isn’t real? The flowers were one of the only real things you gave me and they died too. Maybe that was a late sign.

Maybe sometimes I wish you would’ve given me those roses years ago. A rose, of everything. You didn’t cut the thorns off. The difference though, is that these roses never fully opened up.

But us, you, me? We opened. I opened like two rose gold, French gates leading into a pasture of flowers and dew.

You opened like the parted sea, roaring with waves of things you’ve held back and body’s you sucked in. I always told you never to buy me flowers, let alone a red rose.

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