ROSE WITH THORNS

Daddy told me I was born a rose, a little light the world would praise. He said, “Be gentle where you wander, keep your heart in careful ways.” But every rule he wrapped in love felt like a chain I couldn’t see— how do you bloom the way you’re meant when someone else decides the key. I’m not your cautionary tale, not purity you get to grade. You call me reckless when I choose, but praise the men who do the same. And every time I claimed my skin you marked me lost and named me child— but freedom isn’t sin or shame, it’s just a woman un‑reviled. Yeah, I’ve had nights I blurred the noise, but don’t you dare rewrite my name. A drink, a kiss, a neon room— that’s coping, not a fall from grace. Don’t tell me how a rose should bloom, don’t sanctify my every move. I’m done with carrying your fears, your double standards, your taboos. But every petal that I gave to those who only loved the chase left me standing in the wreckage, trying to recognise my face. There was a woman who saw me whole, not as a trophy or a dare. She touched the parts I hid from all, and loved me with a steady care. But I was busy breaking chains, proving I was more than what they drew— and in the noise of my rebellion, I pushed away the one who knew. Now every rumor, every stare feels like a debt I can’t undo. They call me “wild,” they call me “ruined”— but none of them know who I lost to. I’ve walked through life that left a mark, I’ve carried the labels they designed. But none of them cut half as deep as knowing what I left behind. And freedom without tenderness became a halo cut from steel— a rose who fought to own herself but scorched the one she most desired. Don’t tell me how a rose should bloom— I’ll bloom in ways you’ll never tame. But I have learned that losing love hurts deeper than your rules or shame. And though my petals won’t return, I’m learning how to heal the stem— I am a rose with thorns, still standing tall — I’ll never bleed like that again.