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my rose,
It hurts. It hurts, knowing that by holding on I just run the thorns deeper into
my skin. But by letting go, I'd let the punctures bleed. Is it worth it? I don't
know. If the wounds are open, they might get infected. They might fester. I
don't want to let go. But keeping the thorns in my hand just pushes them deeper
in as I struggle to hold my hand steady, to hold him gently. His bloom is
vibrant, matching the colour of my blood - he is a beautiful rose. I see other
flowers, I think they too, are beautiful. But I know nothing compares to him.
The rose understands. All it needs is words. I can't give anymore. The rose
doesn't bloom alone. Alongside it, many flowers sprout. I glare at them. I don't
want them to steal his nutrients. But maybe I'm just scared that he'll realise I
bring nothing to him. I wait for him, he waits for me, but it takes too long.
Other flowers bloom sooner, and hurt my hands less. But I hold steady, because I
don't want my wounds to fester. I think of my rose whenever i walk away from my
garden, thinking of the day he blooms and smiles in my face, caresses my cheeks
with his gentle fingers. When we look at eachother, face to face, man to man.
But that day won't come soon. I look at a pretty flower that I know would end up
poisoning me, if not worse. It's nothing special, but it blooms sooner. I feel
sick even thinking of abandoning the rose. My brain tells me the rose is weak,
that he won't survive without me, but I know otherwise. Roses live without
humans, and humans live without roses. But I feel like I can't. I feel like if I
don't water my rose everyday, I have nothing to live for. I see the rose
alongside other plants, and all I can think of is cutting them all off.
But I don't. I'm better than that. He doesn't love those plants like he loves
me. He sits with them, laughs with them. He jokes with them, talks to them. He
says the same things he says to me to them. I know it's just the way he is, a
charming crimson bud, throwing suggestive words left and right. But I feel like
I'm hurt. I want to be the one receiving those comments and feeling the wounds
left from gently holding him close.
Whenever the wounds come to closing, I make a mistake. I feel like it's finally
time to let go, that my wounds are still fixable if I let go. But I don't. I
panic, and grab back on. Leaving my rose would be suicide, both literally and
metaphorically. I watch as the rose talks with his friends, while I stay
indoors. I'm allergic to rain. It burns my skin, and a raincoat isn't enough to
stop it. It rains every week, sometimes for days a time. I can't talk to my
rose.
I send my beautiful rose letters, telling him how much I adore him and miss him.
Sometimes he replies late, but i don't mind. I anxiously check the door for a
new letter every few hours, but sometimes nothing comes. I wish him goodnight,
and wake up to a goodnight text. We only live a few metres apart, but we rarely
meet to wish eachother goodnight. I'm scared. Does he love me? If only there was
a daisy here. I could judge it off "loves me, loves me not"
The rose had his thorns cut before. They always grow back, shielding him from
insects and bad people. I don't know why I touch them. It's clear that I can't
touch his stem, and yet I foolishly try every day. The rose suggests games
sometimes, to catch rain with my tongue. He enjoys it, being a plant - he needs
the water, he loves the water. Water burns me. But I know that's one of the only
times I can be with him. I smile through the sting as my heart beats faster -
I'm scared, but not enough to leave.
The rose has not yet bloomed. His face remains hidden. He sees mine, and yet I
never see his. He tells me he doesn't look good enough, but I disagree. I tell
him he's beautiful, even if I've never seen his face. His voice makes me smile.
He makes me smile. He brightens my day. He can meet anytime - the rain won't
stop him. In any weather, any season, he awaits. He wakes up late, sleeping in.
I'd wait, but the rain comes back towards the sunset.
My rose wakes up, and I sit with him. Sometimes we splash water at each other.
Sometimes I suggest that I tend to his soil, but he refuses, saying he doesn't
feel like it. I oblige - I don't want to harm him. Roses need care, but too much
care will only lead to trouble. So I sit by, until I feel the first droplets
fall onto my head. I'm scared of the rain. I sit home in the rain, looking out
the window. The rose talks with his friends. I wish I could do the same things
with him as he does with them.
I feel like I hate his friends. They're flowers, they didn't do anything wrong,
just grew near him. But just the sight of them having fun with him makes me
jealous. I feel sick, I clench my fists - the thorn cuts won't heal, but right
now, they don't bleed. I want to tell the rose that I can't do this anymore, but
what's four years until he blooms? I can wait! I can... I can wait. I pace
around my room, near tears. I can't wait. I wish I could see the roses face, and
kiss him, but I know I can't. His voice will have to do.
I agree with what he says, because I'm afraid of seeming too annoying or bad to
him. Sometimes I change to hopefully fit his leaves, sometimes it gives me
bruises, sometimes it makes me happy. I memorised all the things he says he
doesn't like. The kinds of soil and fertilizer he can't stand, the games and
phrases he likes, and yet, I feel like he doesn't remember as much about me. I
say a joke, he tilts his crown at me, confused.
I expect too much. I've never been in love with a rose, no less actually got
with one. It's always just been my friends and acquaintances - those who won't
step a foot near the garden. Some of them I'd die for, but I've gotten over all
of them. I feel guilty when I glance at them and think that they look good. I
feel guilty for mentioning the fact I've liked them. The rose has been with more
plants than me. All I know is that some thistles left his leaves bruised.
When the rain comes, like today, or it's too late to go outside, I sit in my
bed. My eyes are droopy, but I don't even glance out the window. The rose and
his friends are still awake, I know that from the distant laughter and chatter.
But I don't pay them attention. I feel like I ruin the fun. Instead, I sit in
place, writing a poem in my hand. A few tears have already fell onto the paper,
and I feel like there would be more. I write down the last sentence, and finish
off with a few more words.
for the rose, my love, my sun, the blisters on my hands.