He tried to hold her,
but she was tangled in thorns,
a rose that learned long ago
to keep delicate petals
hidden behind jagged leaves
shaped like loneliness.
She waits quietly
for hands strong enough
to cut through the thorns,
but gentle enough
to find the delicate flower,
just learning to bloom,
and set her free.
His gold ring catches the light,
like a line I can’t cross.
A dividing line where my heart ends
and his begins,
etched by vows that are sacred,
and not mine to break.
So I lock my thoughts away
as something delicate, unfinished.
A secret, pressed between the pages
of a book I’ll never open.
Content with loving him from afar,
and holding his hand in my dreams.
I never learned the rules about meter or metaphor, or what not to say out loud. I just write what lives inside me: the bruises, the blossoms...