She was a rose in a bed of roses. He picked her and she felt so honored.
He crushed her in his palms. And she stayed. Taking it. Thinking it was love. Thinking he loved her too, just as much as she loved him.
She was naive to think he wanted her. He picked at her, at her petals one by one until she was a shell of what he made.
Until she left. Leaving him empty handed. She picked up her shattered pieces, the ones she could.
Making herself as whole as she could. Knowing she would never be the girl she once was.