Grasping the stem tightly--
as tight as I can grip--
the thorns dig into my fingers,
but I will never let it slip!
The petals have all faded.
The bloom has passed its prime.
Just a rotting flower stem--
but this stem is still all mine!
"Let go," they whisper gently
as my wounds begin to scab.
"You want to heal yourself,"
but I grip harder to what I had.
And now the dried up petals lay,
a murder scene beneath my feet.
I hold my bloodied stem,
in pitiful defeat.
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