I am coarse, rough around the edges but not like sand.
Not in the way that it can feel soft, masquerade as something nice.
I am the jagged teeth of a smooth stone wall,
Catching flesh on a surprise brush and ripping it open,
Drawing blood.
.
Everything about me is rough in an obvious, dangerous way.
The way you see wood splintering along a handrail
Or a rusted pair of scissors, cast haphazardly on a bench.
The thin thorns on the rose, not big but willing to bite.
Willing to expose the soft insides of a hard outside.
.
I've become sharp,
Unblinkingly able to slice open the lies
And let uncomfortable truths stain the grass red.
The shame of it all, is that somewhere along the way
I cut myself open too, a rose bush strangled by its thorns.
About the Creator
Silver Serpent Books
Writer. Interested in all the rocks people have forgotten to turn over. There are whole worlds under there, you know. Dark ones too, even better.
Reader insights
Outstanding
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
Top insight
Excellent storytelling
Original narrative & well developed characters
Comments (7)
I was intrigued by the image you chose, and the poem certainly lived up to it! The imagery you've created is almost tangible
Such rich imagery of roughness and pain. This last stanza really gave wings to the particulars
This was so dark, intense and relatable! Loved your poem!
This hits home. Beautiful!
I ate this up. The corrosive edges so honestly exposed feel like a memory or two, once removed. Brilliantly written and evocative!
It takes a certain softness, to confess to being sharp. Nicely done!
omg, I think you've crawled inside my brain and pulled out a few thoughts. LOVE this; it's so relatable.