Traces of you

There's a flower in my heart that pricks me when I start to love.

To remind me

Of you.

Yes the flower you told me to wear proudly is still entangled in my ribcage.

Though now the petals no longer trace their form against my heart. Instead the thorns slash at me.

To remind me

Of you.

The rose you offered me. Now stained a darker shade of red.

To remind me

Of you.

To love is a blessing. But to be loved by you is what no one dares to write about. It's what my mother did not warn against. So yes, I still wear your flower. No longer proudly. No longer do I become entranced by it's fragrance or smile at it's presence.

It is wilted, dying.

To remind me

Of you.