If a girl is a rose,
all else is thorns and thistles.
She sways rich and ruddy,
warm velvet in the summer,
but the nettle down her spine’s
as much her skin as petal fine.
And what of power?
For a flower,
she looks a lot like barbed wire,
For something natural,
she looks electric.
Trespassers, please
do not touch the art.
She bends once in the wind,
and is plucked from the ground
by greedy fingers,
that blame her when they bleed.
If a girl is a rose,
roses never have been wild.
She grows only in line
with the stakes on the trees,
cut down, dyed.
Trim her sides till they shine,
dip her in whatever water
serves you best,
these unnatural colors of man.
Sit her on the kitchen table,
forget that she lives too,
let her wilt,
float her in a glass of champagne,
press her in the pages of a book,
pin her, helpless,
to your clothes.
Long live the girl,
long live the rose.
If all else is thorns and thistles,
it’s dangerous to grow.
Rough brush and no way out,
under cloud cover and snow.
And I think that we’ve all been here a while.
And I think this place was never really safe.
And you’ll never save her;
she was never right to save.
It’s too late to liberate a thing
that never has been free.
You doomed her from the drop
of seed to forest floor.
Long live the rose,
Long live the girl.
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