The Cliché of Red Roses
In which you are a bouquet of red roses: Trimmed so no thorns mar her hands. You’re in the desperate clutches of a woman Who’s never held stems as tightly before – And never wants to again, since When they wither and dry and curl at the edges, It will hurt as much as appendicitis. She will howl until you’re removed Under the guise of betterment… And her surgery scar? That Will remain Longer than your scent.
When I found it, the mildew Had already pervaded The wooden beams of the thing, Turning the walls fuzzy with moss. It was an old playhouse, or a hideout, Or a castle, or a kitchen – Whatever it was belonged to the woods now. A ragged old flag, Presumedly once blue Had surrendered almost completely, but still flapped. The ladder had broken in three places, And the windows were dark with grime – But the faraway cries of pirates and cowboys Echoes through the rafters.
She loves you even if she Overfills the hot water bottle, Sending scalding droplets Directly washing over your sensitive fingertips, And the smell of warm rubber coats everything – She loves you especially if The burnt edges of your surprise breakfast Fill the kitchen with smoke and Your throat gets scratched by cat claws Of cloying crumbs that catch: She loves you when the bath She ran for you and filled with soap Is too hot and too full and Too bubbly and too fragrant And too unwelcoming.
Liberty Price is a Creative Writing student at the University of Lincoln. She enjoys exploring nature and cycling; but most of all, reading and writing (in equal measure!) At the moment, she’s probably looking up the meanings of long words or thinking of a new story plot. She has previously been published in Spellbinder Magazine and Visual Verse with others in the works!
You can find her on Twitter: @LibertyPrice15 or Instagram @libertymprice.