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Summer Rose Poem
Who am I?
Am I the glittering pink eyeshadow pallet I crave?
Or is my sparkle dimmed by the hurt that swims amongst dull green
and fading tanned blotches on my face?
Can they see through my veil,
Through the very thing I am not?
Copyright © Summer Rose | Year Posted 2026
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Summer Rose Poem
I imagine your sweet little fingers curling around mine in a grip only a girl as strong as you could have,
Because I was always stubborn and determined.
I imagine your hair would fall around your shoulders in light waves, not thick but wispy,
Because my hair has always been too thin.
I imagine you’d run and trip over your own two feet and you’d cry for half an hour,
Because I’ve never been able to admit when I wasn’t good at something.
I imagine your skin would crawl as you look at pictures of yourself,
Because I never saw the good in me.
I imagine you’d be flawed and imperfect,
Because I could never seem to do anything right.
I imagine I would love you until the stars came down,
Because I would see everything I hate about myself in you.
Copyright © Summer Rose | Year Posted 2026
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Summer Rose Poem
My fight with the pencil sharpener was unceremonious and desperate
And afterwards my hands smelt like metal
Torn skin stuck to my sheets
And my pyjamas burned through
I couldn’t get the plasters off the next morning
And my soul heaved with shame
I told you it was a one time thing but by the time I told you that I’d already done it twice
And I planned on it happening again
Copyright © Summer Rose | Year Posted 2026
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Summer Rose Poem
I miss October summers and April winters,
The touch of a soul against mine.
I miss July downpours and December heatwaves,
The spirit holding me as I cry.
I miss underground gardens and overhead basements,
The whisper of electricity along the line.
I miss delicate roses and prickling buttercup,
The ache of my mind asking why.
Copyright © Summer Rose | Year Posted 2026
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Summer Rose Poem
I don’t long for love,
I find it meaningless.
Unless I’m sat on a bus with my eyes fighting consciousness
Or laying in a cold bed at night.
Only sometimes when I’m sat on a park bench do I long for the touch of another in my hand.
Or for someone to peer over my shoulder as I’m reading.
Painting my nails is tiring sometimes
And so is brushing my hair.
But what use do I have for another?
What use do I have for a lover?
Copyright © Summer Rose | Year Posted 2026
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