When I was young, I pricked myself on a rose thorn.
The foolish and naive me at that time wondered how something so alluring could be so deceptively fatal.
As I grew up, slowly but surely, I began to have a fondness for pain.
Because I had come to know that the prettiest things are always the ones that hurt you the most.
There's something in the pain that I crave.
It's the way that roses are so innocent and so lovely even as they lie to you and tear you apart.
And I loved every last petal that fell from their bud. Plucked, dried, kept away in a box, and still seemingly eternal after all that.
And I loved their scent that lingered no matter how many times I wash the sheets.
And I loved how they blushed and bloomed underneath my touch, red or pink or white or peach.
I loved them all, god damn it.
However, it was only until now that I thought about it.
Maybe I loved them because I was unable to forget the first time I shed blood on my fingertips.
None of them had ever come close to the only rose that I wished to rip and crush and burn with my own two hands.
It's a shame.
A real shame.
If only she hadn't wilted away before I had the chance to.