In this day and age,

Beauty can be a burden,

With all the creeps

Lurking in the shadows,

One thing is clear…

If you’re a rose,

You need thorns.

A pretty blood red rose,

Ripe for the picking,

But to be picked

Is to be killed,

To have your beauty

Tarnished.

I wish not for beauty,

But for protection from it.

Roses have sharp thorns,

Like how demons have pointy horns,

When they’re touched,

Blood will spill.

Blood will rain

If a rose gets picked.

Their death not in vain,

But used as a warning.

They may win the battle,

But they will not win the war…

Killing these

Bloody beauties,

It will leave scars.