Graveyard roses. I planted some for you. They bloom brighter and sweeter with each passing year.
As you didn’t in life.
You said you loved me, but did you? You truly only loved yourself, and I don’t think you loved yourself that much.
Love/hate. Too close to call. Like the roses, beauty and pain on one stem. Admire from a distance for if you get too close hurt will follow.
I should have admired you from a greater distance. But I was blinded by your blossoms and I did not see the thorns. I thought holding you tighter meant your love for me would bloom. Yet the tighter I held, the deeper the pain til crimson petals scattered across the floor.
Your petals not mine. One by one they dropped until your lifeforce departed and all that was left was decay.
Graveyard roses. I planted some for you. They bloom six feet or so above your rotting corpse and passers-by admire their vibrant blooms every summer. My neighbours ask my secret, but I never tell.