You seek a love patterned in roses
that open and close to teasing eyes
that watch your frame as you twirl
and bloom in crowded rooms.

My love would strangle the buds
before they first flowered,
pierce the flesh of wandering hands that
would stop for a moment’s curiosity.

You do wrong to search for freedom
in a garden full of thorns that
would take your screams for passion,
and see you bled dry before it would
set you free.