Middle Names

I lay in a bed of rose flowers.

The thorns pricked

My thighs

blood trickled down

My sides

Into the forever decaying soil

Pricked fingers

crimson gushing

I was named after a rose

But I will never feel that pretty

This poem is about: 


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741