The rose is blood red. Drips with love, but with hurt. Thorns are sharp, but bright. Once I present you a rose, I’m showing you my love. You don’t know what I’ve gone through to get that rose for you. You can guess too.
The rose is covered in the blood of love. Blood from the heart. Deep love. Gutted heart. Here’s to hoping that you take this rose as my inner red juice has tampered with it. This is my sign that I love you. The rose is one of a kind. I wanted to make sure you take this and appreciate everything about it.
The rose is yours. The blood on the rose is yours now. My blood is your blood. The rose’s blood is your blood. I love you. You love me?