I wish I knew how to stop my hands from shaking
when I hold a delicate rose that anyone
could crush. He
reached for it, and I wanted to tell him
this blossom belongs to me but
I only pretended not to see him reaching. Even though his fingers drum
on the desk,
I am twice as impatient. For him, the red will fade and
the petals will become
like brown scales on
a thorny stalk. I am not
handing out numbers written on leaves that
people tear from the stem; these thorns
will not tattoo your name on
my wrist. Let go of
the open book you hold;
only I will choose how to
press and preserve
my flower.
I crush the rose in my hand
and smile as the thorns draw the second blood.
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