Maybe roses didn’t always have thorns.
What if they grew them to protect the frailty of our hearts,
To warn us of the neuroticism of fantasy,
That spews lies about romanticism,
Supposedly sealing its essence behind petals and chlorophyll?
Maybe the roses knew better than us,
That four letters encompass much more than mere emotion,
But we’ve deluded ourselves into believing,
In gestures and rules about courtship,
When empirical theories can’t begin to encapsulate this dance of affection.
Maybe the roses were trying to teach us,
How to actually love without conditions that hinder,
So they prick our fingertips and draw blood,
To pierce our hearts and spurn nonchalance,
But we shunned their wisdom and chose to indulge fairytales and false magic instead.
Maybe we should’ve listened to the roses,
When they said we’d have to work and fight pain,
As we toiled in our own gardens in order,
To grow the love we dream about at night.
Now these thorns are the only remnants left reaching out for our attention.