“nice guy”

you ask me what’s wrong

and with that sweet rose, you kiss my hair

i answer in quick whispers that i can’t talk

about it, much less breathe

because talking about it makes it harder

because what i need is to focus on being strong

and you are reaching for a hug

until suddenly it is not a hug anymore

you stab the rose thorns into my broken skin

making it bleed even more

making it cry even more

i beg you to stop

but you don’t

for you claim that it is my punishment

for you claim that you were being a nice guy

when you asked me what’s wrong

that i should be lucky that someone

even cares that much about me

and as i hear your twisted words i shrivel like the rose

that is now turning into black ash

i wither like the stem that you twirl in your hands

as the green stains your hand

blood stains mine

i should’ve known your thoughts only bear weeds of manipulation,

for roses never stay sweet in your fingertips for long

and in this agony,

i become the mere audience of a brutal murder of

a sweet rose and a once-loved girl