Bed of thorns

Your flowers nestled in nettled trichomes

Sent a rush through the hands that grazed them

Like a thousand hypodermic memories implanted

Like the time I sunk my teeth into you

And my pupils dilated in wonder of unknown knowledge

Then the acrid aftertaste of regret washed over my tongue

Because after you’ve had the sweetest rose

All that remains is a bed of thorns

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