Love?

I told you I would always hold on to a rose of our love. Although the thorns cut deep, the smell of our love made every second worth it. Your smile, your eyes, it was like a God has gifted me a constallation of beauty. I wasn't exaggerating when I said death was not the end of our love. The maggots would hear my heart beat for you in my ribcage. But it all went south. The thorns cut deeper. The smell faded. Maybe your mask fell off. The warmth of our love is now merely a cold breeze. Not a single drop of love in my heart. Yet the scarring on my hands remain. Your lips were beautiful, yet they couldn't speak. You should've used them to tell me you didn't love me. Then maybe the thorns didn't cut that deep. Then maybe the scars on my hands wouldn't still hurt. I wanted love. You wanted sex.