Rose
She wonders, is this safe?
No; if she wonders further, she stops
herself. He will not speak of himself,
or of love. Forbidden, it's buried. Does
that hurt her?
Better starved for his words
than gorged on others'. She secretly
likes
when he gets angry,
brows furrowed, face grim. Being
alive; sometimes she wonders—
is all that grinning a façade? What
is the hurt that's too deep? He fingers her mind,
she wants more. Not something
he could give, even if that's what
he wanted.