The cliché of red roses Liberty Price

Liberty Price

The Cliché of Red Roses

In which you are a bouquet of red roses: Trimmed so no thorns mar her hands.

You’re in the desperate clutches of a woman Who’s never held stems as tightly before –And never wants to again, since When they wither and dry and curl at the edges, It will hurt as much as appendicitis.

She will howl until you’re removed Under the guise of betterment… And her surgery scar? That Will remain Longer than your scent.