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Where the Thorns Remember Me
Date: June 17, 2025
I wandered through a bleeding dusk,
the wind forgot my name.
A rose was growing from the dust—
I reached, and it became
the fog that hums like swallowed screams.
My lungs forget to breathe.
I taste old blood beneath my tongue.
Each petal cuts me in my sleep—
what did I dare believe?
Each step I took was stitched with fear,
my lungs too tired to cry.
The thorns grew taller year by year—
no stars remained in sky.
The rose I found—its crimson face
still beautiful, still wrong.
It bled me when I touched its grace
and whispered, “You belong.”
I walk through air too thin to hold.
The sky is ash and rust.
I don’t know if I’m growing old—
or simply turning dust.
Copyright ©
Becoming trude from the ruins
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