humans are but roses.
we can be pretty but we have our thorns. some die young, others, a little later. some are late bloomers. like petals, we are made up of various layers that shields the world from our very core. only those who care and stand by you as you are withered and dying will ever get to see you without your masks and the facades you put up to make yourself look pretty. we are all the same but so very different.