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Rosy.

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A thorny kiss, that pricked like tetanus. 
Your touch left papercuts no alcohol could remedy, fragrant to smell yet poison to me, 
you were the infection that led to disease. 
I may be your cancer, but I am also your man, 
so take back these seeds, bury them in the sand.
Not weak, but naive, and blissfully aware,
fake smiling my way through every affair.
I am the reason, and all that remains. 
You are the bleach; the iodine that stains. 
Like ink, you left your mark through roses, especially when they'd wilt,
so I swallowed my pride in spite of my guilt; 
pluck each of my petals as I slowly decay;
I return to the soil as I drift away.

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