Rose
It is very difficult for me to leave things unanswered. Extremely difficult. I need to know.
It is becoming impossible for me not to express myself. I have to show more strength. I set a plan and I have to follow it. Yeah, I'll feel what I feel and I'll just have to find new avenues to express it, because being open about it is not okay. I love to be open, I like to share what I am feeling. I want people to know, I want it to be dealt with, I want to be close.
And the story is this:
A flower grew in a garden and it was not supposed to be there. The woman who owned the garden was very upset. Someone, some insect, wind, something, anything had infiltrated her precisely upkept garden. What got her even more upset was that she hadn't even noticed it until it blossomed this morning. So immediately she grasps it and she howls in pain. Prickled all over her wrinkly hand. She gets even more angry. Frustration boils in her skull. She goes for the base, one hand on the bottom, the other just above. She yanks once, nothing but blood. She reaffirms her squatting stance. Pulling twice, pulling again, her skin is shredding, the flower is not budging. She blinks twice, she had not even realized it was the most beautiful rose she had ever seen. Delicate, graceful, she begins to cry. What an amazing plant, an amazing flower. Its breathtaking, why should she do this?
Slowly, she starts her shaking her head, then faster. Her mouth gnarls and she remembers what she came out here to do. Waddling triumphantly to her garage, she finds her trusted, daisy-covered gardening gloves.
This is it. She kneels next to the bed and plants her fingers around those thorns one last time. Its time to say goodbye.
She becomes angry, filled with a ferocious desire to kill it, but also immensely saddened at the thought of destroying the most beautiful flower she ever witnessed.
One last back-throwing tug was all she needed. She laid on the grass and laughed and laughed and laughed. The deed was done and she had never been so sad. The rose laid beside her, dead.
It is becoming impossible for me not to express myself. I have to show more strength. I set a plan and I have to follow it. Yeah, I'll feel what I feel and I'll just have to find new avenues to express it, because being open about it is not okay. I love to be open, I like to share what I am feeling. I want people to know, I want it to be dealt with, I want to be close.
And the story is this:
A flower grew in a garden and it was not supposed to be there. The woman who owned the garden was very upset. Someone, some insect, wind, something, anything had infiltrated her precisely upkept garden. What got her even more upset was that she hadn't even noticed it until it blossomed this morning. So immediately she grasps it and she howls in pain. Prickled all over her wrinkly hand. She gets even more angry. Frustration boils in her skull. She goes for the base, one hand on the bottom, the other just above. She yanks once, nothing but blood. She reaffirms her squatting stance. Pulling twice, pulling again, her skin is shredding, the flower is not budging. She blinks twice, she had not even realized it was the most beautiful rose she had ever seen. Delicate, graceful, she begins to cry. What an amazing plant, an amazing flower. Its breathtaking, why should she do this?
Slowly, she starts her shaking her head, then faster. Her mouth gnarls and she remembers what she came out here to do. Waddling triumphantly to her garage, she finds her trusted, daisy-covered gardening gloves.
This is it. She kneels next to the bed and plants her fingers around those thorns one last time. Its time to say goodbye.
She becomes angry, filled with a ferocious desire to kill it, but also immensely saddened at the thought of destroying the most beautiful flower she ever witnessed.
One last back-throwing tug was all she needed. She laid on the grass and laughed and laughed and laughed. The deed was done and she had never been so sad. The rose laid beside her, dead.