Sharp

I am coarse, rough around the edges but not like sand.

Not in the way that it can feel soft, masquerade as something nice.

I am the jagged teeth of a smooth stone wall,

Catching flesh on a surprise brush and ripping it open,

Drawing blood.

.

Everything about me is rough in an obvious, dangerous way.

The way you see wood splintering along a handrail

Or a rusted pair of scissors, cast haphazardly on a bench.

The thin thorns on the rose, not big but willing to bite.

Willing to expose the soft insides of a hard outside.

.

I've become sharp,

Unblinkingly able to slice open the lies

And let uncomfortable truths stain the grass red.

The shame of it all, is that somewhere along the way

I cut myself open too, a rose bush strangled by its thorns.