Valentine

The expected takes form in roses of red,
Shielded, caged by a garden bed.
A thorn you stole, and pricked your head,
Whimpering slowly; "would you prefer me dead?"

Now I'm sleeping in between your walls,
Admiring the off-white paint, how it falls
Between your fingers, they trace lonely halls,
Only the echo remains to answer your calls.

Your mirror finally turned its back on you,
Sick of your vanity, the hate just grew.
Until it did your head in and you finally knew
Those roses, not violets burn that comforting blue.