My Third Poem;; I Doubt Anybody Cares Though

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Torn And Broken

My tears pour down my face,
I hold my rose tighter now,
Thorns piercing into my skin.
The flower falls and wilts,
stained with blood.
My hands,
Bloodied and scratched,
Rise to the sky.
I just don't care anymore,
Such as you don't care about me.
I look to the rose,
Bloodied and Dead,
Much like me.
I ruined me,
Tore myself up.
Now I'm what I fear,
My own worst enemy.