Roses

I have a bed made from thornes of roses.

I welcome the pain as I lay on it at night.

Petals brush against my skin, thorns dig into my flesh. They lay into their dents, they’re at home in artificial dimples. My body has altered itself to accommodate them. They are part of me.

The pain is everlasting, I rejoice in these aching habits.

It’s the only constant thing in my life.