outside, you are roses.
you are spring day,
a summer morning,
a flower in dewdrops
learning to blossom.
but you have hands made of thorns,
and you are grasping my heart with a clenched fist.
i am a half-alive bird caught
in the talons of a hawk,
feathers tearing from my bleeding skin
and splashing in the mud.
i keep scissors in my nightstand,
but you are a weed
that one must rip out at the root.
my hands are ghosts
that were never too good
at grasping things in the first place.