You only wanted my petals, so I ripped each one out like feathers that never were good at flying anyway. Tore each out by the root, exposed only skin, raw with thorns like a Sky too dark to see any stars; I gave you my scars. You looked straight in without flinching, held me like the beauty of my heart and soul was enough, because you always said it was more than enough. But the fog lifted, the sun came out like truth trying to scorn me, and I still feel the burn of sparks landing softly like lies giving birth, to prepare for the explosion of how you ran away. Hands filled with petals dropped, each one behind you to leave a trail as a reminder of where the thorns crossed your path once, ripped through the beauty, turned your hands ugly, left me filthy. I used to shame myself for that, took the blame for your weakness like that, told myself I was dirty and ugly and too full of thorns like that. But fuck that. Now I’m all thorns, cutting through first impressions like a blade that bleeds all the soft parts out. No petals shown to cushion the blow of someone’s weakness to save them from the edge of the thorn sharper than their ego. No… I only bloom when someone’s shows me they can handle my thorns without the petals. I only root myself in places where the ugly blooms deep, long before the pretty ever sprouts in shallow spaces. I only grow in gardens where true beauty is seen for what it is, not for the surface of what your eyes see. You didn’t have to pick me, but you did… and you ripped every petal off before you decided my bloom wasn’t whore enough for you.