A Match Made in Hell


It was your lips; they drew me in, soft as they were,
like sweet petals of a rose.
I should have known that when I'd begin to want
all of you, you would greet me with your thorns
And scar the hands you once held
with a deceptive softness.
They say roses are a symbol of passion
but while I was going crazy,
you were defining apathy.

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