Developing a slight obsession with Prim and the rose metaphor. This will not end well. The roses at the beginning were my birthday roses. They are dead now. Anyways, please review. *cocks gun to your head* *but the gun is not loaded* *feel intimidated anyhow*
wilted roses
there's something desperately sad about wilted roses
I mean, all flowers die
and it's like I die inside when they do
but with roses, it's different
because they held so much promise
so fresh, so filled with life
they were sweet scented and beige and tinged with maroon at the edges
and now they're wilted and crumpled and shriveled
and they're not so much maroon at the edges as black
and every time I look at them,
I feel so very sad at their lack of life
but I can't bring myself to throw them out
…
well, things are different now
the roses are so very dead
and I don't care anymore because I'm not there
and I don't really have time to care every time a rose dies
because there are actual people dying now
leached of the life they once owned
not shriveled, but broken
and the roses have long since been thrown out
…
I regret that, now
because with so little pretty in my life
I could do with some roses,
because they are still so beautiful in death
…
I've always liked roses
maybe it's because of my name
maybe it's because they are allowed to be delicate
and fragile
and beautiful
and no one thinks they're any weaker
…
there's something desperately sad about wilted roses
but it's even more desperately sad when it's a wilted person
…
it angers me sometimes
that they have to die
it's not fair
the world doesn't need weeds, not so much
as they need the beauty and delicacy and hope
that a fresh rose brings
but when a rose wilts
it's like the world has been drained of hope
and sometimes, I just want to make a wish
without wondering if it will wilt like everything else
…
all roses die
even me
all roses are mortal
even me
all roses wilt
but I hope they remember that I didn't.