Rose

This Rose, the original, pulls it’s starers in,

one touch at a time, these watchers become blind.

Blind with an emotional overflow from these thoughts, cursed these thoughts…

one touch at a time, these watchers become blind…

their fingers move from the folds of the rose’s lips,

to the curve of it’s bodice petals.

Already having touched the most fragile and intimate part of this original scarlet...

it’s not enough, they want more…

To touch and feel every part, as they continue down to it’s covered hips…

wanting to feel and touch as much as they can and especially, especially to hold this rose, to control this rose.

To pull it out of it’s roots and demand it be in their hand, the stem held captive, the rose cannot drink, cannot feel the sunlight anymore for feeling so objectified; so used.

WHY?

Why? Would they? When they loved this rose? To feel the way they felt from it and yet still play and do what they pleased with it?

When all that this rose was meant to be was to be seen, respected, loved and a creator of passion.

The passion having been lost, and filled with anger and hatred from being so damn played with!

The rose can only protect itself so much as before the thorns turn against its admirer.

Until the admirer becomes greedy in their desire and touches no longer carefully, but so selfishly-feeling all of the rose until the rose says NO!

This rose bites back spilling your crimson blood, revealing it has thorns too…although the rose never hid those like you.

Within time, this rose will not be the same…this scarlet will have become damaged and wilted from it’s old frame.

Thank you for your love but please do not touch. As this Rose loves her life too much.