Who first made of me emblem, doomed me thus;
Early bloom, suitors pluck impatiently
Stems like helpless arms, raised up, aghast,
Give no protection. The gift of my little death
Works wonders, means he means it, seals the deal.
False hearts or true, all take too easily –
Blossoms; too open a face, that sets aflame;
A heart come apart, wrecked rupture, inside out.
Thorn cannot save me, yet if rude hands, too sure,
A gash I’ll give – you too can bloom, vain boy.
May he forsake her. May she break his heart.
I’m red as lust, as blushes, red as blood,
As rage; I am the rose and thorn of love –
And whether I die for true love or pretend,
I’ll be your pitiless God, your crimson end.
David Ruaune
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