Eddie! I found this in my Google Docs.
Why is it lowk not bad
When someone falls for someone else, they give them a rose to propose.
Everyone had gotten one at least once, even if it was a bud or full flower, if they lasted a year or one hour.
My first flower was ripped from someone else’s garden, withering away, while I thought all roses looked gray.
I tried to keep it alive, like how the books and movies tell you. But all it did was smell and wilt.
I didn’t know it was possible to feel such guilt.
After that rose had died, I shut my garden gates, growing the roses of my own once more and cried.
Intervention had happened, not divine, but something I thought would make it all better.
Another rose was thrust upon me, my gates weren’t open, but they'd blasted right through them by accident.
Of course I took the rose, I didn’t want to be rude or late.
That action would seal my fate.
I grabbed the flower, it hummed and glowed every other hour.
I would think, as I would groom, polish and trim that flower to look prim and proper for anyone to see and admire.
The only thing that manifested was desire.
To share, to show, to ask, to know.
I tried showing the rose off from tip to base, but it was then sealed in a glass case.
I knew it was wrong, why did I do that? I didn’t know, I only wanted to show how my rose would grow.
Pink turned to red, red turned to brown, brown to black.
What happened? Why can’t I turn it back?
It all felt so real, I need the color back to show that I can care enough for just one thing.
Black turned to brown, brown to red.
It was back, but I had bled.
Roses had thorns, I knew that, but you shouldn’t trim them , that’s what makes them special.
I thought that I would never find a rose with thorns like those ever again.
So I kept it safe once more, from tip to base, inside that glass case.
From then on, I swore to silence. Like a ninja protecting their home, or throne.
But my two lips would never fully seal, I would show them my beautiful rose, in private of course, so nobody knows.
No flash photography was allowed near our garden, I knew why, my rose wasn’t like others, we were both aware, but it was a reason to hide it more as if hiding honey from a bear.
Snap, snip. One picture of that rose sitting on its pretty fixture, caused it to blacken again.
I gave it food, water, attention, all the love all I could ever muster.
Just for the results to be lackluster.
I knew I couldn’t frown, I had a rose, so many people didn’t.
If I didn’t go, I’d still be special.
The rose was still the centerpiece of my garden, never did those roots harden, it was a rose, not a tree.
I didn’t realize how prosperous three years needed to be.
The rose would wither my other flowers every hours of any day, making my whole garden gray.
I held on tight to the rose, feeling the needles puncture my skin.
Was my pain coming from outside? Or within?
I tried watering it one last time, I knew something was wrong.
With a heavy heart, I cut it.
All the tape I’d used to keep it together was falling to the ground, but without any sound.
I’d found everything and felt nothing all at once.
I grew new roses and planted them into the dirt, while I thought that roses were supposed to hurt.
“Quite a hefty read, but I believe you’ve conveyed whatever emotion it is you wish to convey well, and the flower motif throughout is a good touch.”
jacobvanloon
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