Rose with thorns, I long to caress your petals. I want to rip you from your bush and place you over my lips as I stare at our reflection. You’re a Principe Negro, the rose that grows in the soils of Cuba but that’s not your origin. Beautiful rose, why prick my fingers if all I want is to hold you?
The rich scent belonging to your skin is one that I will carry around. Your aroma surrounds the air that holds me upright. I’ll wear my black clothes as I wait for you to rescue me, rose prince. I clutched tightly to your petals and stuck the needles of your stem into my skin. I bled all over your velvety petals and it dripped onto the soil you grew in.
Lightheaded, I tore petal by petal and kissed each one slowly. Afterwards I dropped each piece onto the ground where my blood was absorbed. Together in betrayal—let us allow the rain to wear the parts of us away. Let the water deconstruct our skins until we become tiny particles in the dirt.