When you pick the roses, be very careful, or you'll get pricked by the thorns.

A million petals creased in open book pages,

I can't read you like I used to.

And he reminds me of a bitter taste,

And though it's a bit of a sting on my tongue,

I'll get familiar with it, I'll take away its hurt.

Because who needs petals when we have such beautiful thorns?

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