I still see you on your bed of roses,
stems flowing from your hands.
Petals blossoming in pulses
like waves washing over sand.
I still smell your metallic sorrow,
the pitter patter of your departure
and my blood, it feels so sad
for my pretty little martyr.
It was worth the five pound fifty
just to see you alive again.
I know it wasn't really
but it feels good to pretend.
Selfish as your sacrifice
you forgot me all too quick.
Whenever I see roses now
I start to feel sick.
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