The Rose

I am a Rose. Everybody loves to look at me. Admire my beauty. The perfect shape of my petals. The way they pucker up, as if to offer you a kiss. They get too close. Come to pick me. Prick themselves. Drop me. Curse me. Curse me through no fault of my own. Curse me for being the ones who tried to pick me in the first place. Curse me for being beautiful. So beautiful, that it hurts. Hurts literally, physically, metaphorically. Because nobody likes reality. My reality. The realities of life. The realities of a person. Nobody looks beyond the physical, at the core. At the soul. So I die. Whither slowly away and become one with Nature; where I was meant to be. Not in the arms of a person who would only drop it the moment they were pricked. Is it my fault? Is it my fault that I am so beautiful? Is it my fault that I also have flaws? Like everything else in the world. Nobody likes flaws. They want perfection. Perfect beauty, perfect personality - just perfect!

I am the Rose. And I am not perfect.