I was your rose petals that gave off a beautiful scent,yet you were the thorns that pricked me to bleed.
The aroma you loved,the soft beauty you've felt,the long gazes that lingered,you admired it all for its own vanity. Yet,I continued to bleed from those sharp thorns.
No matter how hard I tried to handle it with care,I would always end up getting scars.
What's going to happen when the petals shrivel up and the fragrance is no longer there? Will you throw the rose away on to the Earth's soil where the bugs can finish it off?
Will you quickly forget about it and move on to another rose with the promise of the same pleasures it can provide? All I'm left with are the scars on my hands. Still hurt from the pain.
Still trying to heal. There's only so much that bandages can do to hide what you had done to me.