Bed of Roses
This isn’t a fairy tale, no gentle myth of silk and bloom,
Our bed of roses is a battlefield, thorns everywhere, heavy perfume.
We fuck between petals and pain, tangled in sheets that smell like spring and blood,
You ride me like you own every ache, every pleasure, every flood.
Your nails rake red down my chest, my teeth leave their mark on your throat,
We are both predator and prey, saints and sinners taking the same antidote.
In the dim light, roses bruise beneath our writhing,
Love’s a masochist, and we are thriving.
I worship every gasp you give, every bruise you leave,
This is how we say “I love you”–with a little pain, a lot to believe.
The room is strewn with petals and broken stems,
We laugh through the stings, fuck through the hems,
In the morning, we’ll pluck thorns from each other’s skin,
But tonight, we’re wild, unashamed, letting the wickedness in.
This is not a garden for the gentle or the weak,
It’s an altar for those who want everything–flesh, spirit, and what the wounds speak.