You see me as one of your roses, dripping with blood, wilting in your beautiful hands. You plucked me from the endless field of extraordinary women because I am ordinary and insecure and an easy target, and I will forever despise you for your cruelty. I wonder how many other flowers are choking in vases, wishing they had fought to stay in fields of grass instead of being imprisoned in glass castles, envied but unloved.
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