Addicted
The black rose, oh so beautiful,
A source of comfort yet so bitterful.
As I clutch on tightly, the thorns pierce me deeply.
The pain, so fierce, yet I hold on so,
For the comfort it brings is so overwhelming I cant let go.
The blood that stains my arms a rusty red, a reminder of a love so dead.
Now here I lie, scarred and decayed,
Wishing I never found the blade.
Copyright © Sienna Trusler | Year Posted 2024
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