be careful of this skin
for it is prickly, and it is rough
the roses that bloom may tempt you
until you take a look at the stuff
that makes up this being of mine
that's found a way to survive
despite knowing it's never tender
it's never enough
I am not dead, nor am I alive
I am the in-between that struggles to survive
I don't require much attention
care is not a constant desire
but a couple of drops can sometimes save
this missing soul, somewhere on fire
so how well can your eyes tell
between the scarlet of roses
and that of blood
without daring to find a way
to touch, and bleed, and hurt
yet somehow stay..