The Rose

A man, about my age

known for giving out roses,

Every girl carries the flashy red flower,

waving, and flaunting it as if it would show importance

but he never sees them.

Ironically, I laughed

each girl,

as special as the rusting pennies at the bottom of my bag,

presents themselves as pure diamonds,

fighting over who will get another rose.

I warned myself,

I knew he was motives were deceitful

Although one day,

he handed me a fancy flower

not red, but white like early morning frost

the feeling of Christmas morning, your birthday tied into one

I wore a cheesy smile on my face,

Butterflies danced about in my stomach,

I carried myself in a first, class manner,

who knew a little rose felt this good?

and nothing,

nothing, could end my happiness.

The next day,

clasping my precious treasure tight in my grasp,  

I feel a sharp pinch in my veins.

like a million little knives plunging deep into my fragile skin

who knew such a beautiful flower could have such powerful thorns?

Too afraid to look,

at the damage this so called innocent plant has caused,

I feared if I knew how deep it cut

I’d be forced to let go.

my wound gushed,

staining my no longer perfect flower.