black rose

in a field of dandelions,

you are a beautiful black rose.

and dandelions are

gorgeous, of course,

but they cannot even begin to

compare to your beauty.

you are the type of stunning

that makes people drop

their mouths in amazement

and stop whatever they

are doing to watch you move.

your petals are a bit torn,

but some find that adoring.

you have been replanted more times

than you or I can count –

dug up, shredded to pieces,

stomped on repeatedly

and eaten by wild animals.

but you always seem to

re-bloom in the same place.

people admire you,

and you do not even know it.

you are unaware of how many

lose their breath when they see you –

a dark face of black

inside a sea of bright,

nauseating yellow and white –

and come to a halt,

just to look at you for a moment or two.

you have no clue how many

have walked up to you

and tried to pluck you from the ground

and have pricked their

fingers on your thorns

because the amount of

beauty you possess

causes them to forget

that roses have thorns.

they see how gorgeous you are,

and they choose to erase

the fact of the flower itself

and its thorns’ –

your thorns’ –

existence.

you captivate them.

you poke them without

realizing what you are doing –

it’s not like you have a choice

to be the way you are

and to have those thorns.

it’s not like you enjoy

bringing pain to those

who adore you.

but it happens anyways.

it happens because you are a rose,

and roses have thorns.

it’s almost like a defense mechanism.

like the rest of you knew

the hurt that was to come,

so it grew thorns to protect itself.

or either it was exhausted

from being plucked from its home,

and so, it is preventing

any others from doing it again.

your thorns are your

only form of staying safe –

of keeping your beautiful

petals barricaded.

they have been your wall,

and they will continue to be

until someone gentle

enough comes along

and asks you if you are okay

with them cutting your thorns off –

until someone is soft with you

and has your permission

to tear those walls down.

because without your thorns,

you are vulnerable.

and the last time you allowed yourself

to be vulnerable,

someone tore you apart

and took every ounce

of your beauty for themselves.