Painting Roses

The tip of the blade
Is colored with blood
Adds to the illusion
That I am alive

Never dreamed
I’d see you again

You didn’t have to
Come back
Maybe you just wanted
To retrieve your
Knife

And you stayed
Let me paint roses
On your cold back
With warm red ink
Perhaps you could tell that I was on the
Brink

Though
I knew to well
That the petals would still be
Wet
By the time you left

Swept by the wind
On your way to strange parties
On your way to live your life

I know you might come back
Maybe you would realize
That you forgot your
Knife

Poem is mine. Image is not.

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