Roses are Red

He handed me a yellow rose
on February 14th
that had dull green leaves
hanging by its sides
scorched by time, browned by the sun.
Yet its head was vibrant as light,
each layer peeled back perfectly
into position to form
a soft warning,
flashing a motive in color
of the surface
with depth.

He left the thorns there
jutting out like ledges
to hold onto,
formed precisely for a hands grasp,
for climbing some mountain
that was never there.

So I grabbed hold of them
all at once
with one swift motion
my hands tightened
until the skin of my palm
turned white
and the silence allowed
the welcoming of pain
as blood trickled down
and stained
the rose
red.