To be naked before you is to stand, fully clothed,
whispering lacerations of dead hopes and tired dreams.
To admit I'm tired and sore and ready to fall; into your arms,
into your breath, into your ink-stained fingers and dust covered boots.
I may be milky and sweet and durable, but I am a rose, you see.
A rose filled with heat and fear and covered in glass,
ready to explode with the pressure of a thousand stars,
flicking sweet fire at your heels.
A rose made of bronze, that rusts and burns hot if you're not here to tend to me,
to hold me and soften my jagged spaces.
So tend to me, for I am but made of glass.
Words by Madison Schill
Bruna, New York (2014).