Since I was six, I have hated white roses.
They remind me of you,
Your age,
And the way you told me to keep my mouth shut,
Or else.
You never explained what “or else” meant.
Maybe it’s because I always listened to you,
Out of fear
So I guess you never had to. .
You’d give me a white rose,
And bruises,
And taught me how to lie,
“If anyone asks, you fell.”
And so I did,
“Mom I just fell.”
I held onto the white roses,
Until the thorns poked my skin,
Turning them pink.
The pink roses,
Scarred my hands,
Just like how you scarred me.
Since I was six, I hated white roses,
But adored the pink ones.