this summer I
watched the way you kept
picking roses and pricking
your fingers
on the thorns and
my arms held themselves
open for the tears you
shed but now
I
am the one
picking roses and pricking
my fingers and through my
tears I see
your arms crossed
in front of you.
it is the justice
of roses to
wield their thorns
like invitations
like pulling
thorns
from the inside of your
skin, it
feels like something
you’ve kept in
your own flesh
that isn’t
meant to be a
part of you.
I do not understand your
infatuation
with me, for you like the
mildest teas and I am
the strongest coffee
The Words She Scratched into the Mirror 