• Poetry

    Thorns

    One rose. On her pillow. It was an invitation. It’s velvety red seeping into the white cotton. He’d left the thorns. She touched the tip of one, pressing her flesh into it until it punctured the skin. Slowly. As she closed her eyes, she saw him rising above her, his biceps taut, his jaw set, his brow strong. She felt the blood before she saw it. Lips parting, sigh of release escaping, she licked her lips and then inserted her finger into her mouth, sucking at the metallic, salty flavor or herself. She looked down at the rose. Beside it, a single dot of crimson that would fade to black…

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