Thorns.

You've always compared me to a rose and I never quite understood why. Is it because I'm pretty? Or is it because I have thorns? Is it because, if you get too close you'll hurt yourself?

You can't blame a rose for having thorns. You can't blame me for having walls.

Knowing I had my walls you still picked me, and they hurt you.

Once a rose is picked it's already gone.

You put it in water to act as if though that'll help it. Over time the petals fall and wilt. It becomes ugly there is no turning back. That's what you did to me. You hurt yourself in the process of ruining me. You drowned me with the sweet nothings you'd say. Now you're looking at other roses to pick. You left me alone like I was nothing. Like the selfish man you are. Left me to wilt and die, and in your pathetic attempts to keep me alive, to keep us alive. You intentionally failed.

But look at yourself, you have scars because you picked me, because you got too close. I warned you to keep your distance but you never listen.

This poem is about: 
Me

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