She was handed the rose with the most luscious petals

and the deepest, purest red hue.

Nothing was said between them.

She examined the rose through puffy, glistening, tear-stained eyes.

This rose was love.

Love itself.

The lush, velvety petals

a facade of a “happily ever after”

instilled in her since childhood.

You look past the soft petals

and all that lies is the thorny stem.

This was love.

The mutilating thorns;

only leaving scars for those who dare come close.

This was love.

Something people would much rather stare at from afar,

staring into the petals,

pretending the thorns don’t exist.

This was love.

The lavish petals painted a passionate red;

nothing more than a superficial facade

momentarily masking the pain underneath.

This was love.

You could pick the petals off the rose;

take them off one by one,

and the plant would live.

It would be ugly,

It would be raw,

but It would be alive.

But as soon as you break the stem, it dies.

The pretty petals once a lush, passionate red

quickly shrivel to a disheartened brown.

This was love.

She tightened her grip around the thorns;

to feel something other than emotional pain,

to hopefully infuse herself with what love truly was.