Roses

Just a Prick

You are walking through the rose garden again. All the roses are wet with dew; they just look so fresh and delicate, and as you walk between the rows of roses, you tell yourself that you won't fall for it again. You won't make the same mistake again. Not once more.

You continue to walk through the sea of red when suddenly it catches your eye. Sitting there amongst the blend of red and green is a big, beautiful, blue rose. You stare at it in awe, getting lost in the intense electrifying blue color, but you quickly look away. You promised yourself you wouldn't fall into the same trap. It's a rose, just like all the other roses. It has thorns.

You try to walk past it, but you can't help it, the urge to look up is too strong. You turn your head for a glimpse, trying to get just another taste of its beauty. As you begin to stare you know you have already lost. You are simply hypnotized by its preciousness; you can't look a away. In your mind, you have already picked it, but you know better than to do it in actuality. You don't want it to know you have picked it, but the rose seems to call out to you. It seems to be begging you to admit your admiration for its excellence, to pick it out of the masses of the common red rose.

The temptation grows as you begin to picture how life would be so much better with this rose by your side. You think about the attention it would bring you and how other would be jealous of its aroma and how it surrounds you. You want this rose to be with you always; it brings you so much joy.

You reach down to pick the rose, but you wince as a sharp pain causes you to stop and look at your hands. They are engulfed with scars. They seem to be composed of solely scar tissue. The only places that aren't scarred are bleeding and open wounds. You begin to think back to all the other roses you picked. You remember how they would prick you, but you would continue to hold on tighter and tighter. You remember how the blood would flow down your hand in small rivers and streams. You remember the immense pain it would cause and how you would cry mixing your salty tears with the thick blood trickling from your hand. You remember dropping the roses, falling to your knees, and weeping as your hands exploded with pain. You have learned from these experiences that roses will hurt you and the harder you try to hold on, the more you—and only you—would get hurt. So you have learned not to hold on, you have learned not to try so hard.

However, this rose is calling out to you. You tell yourself that this rose could be different, when you know that it is not so. All roses have thorns. You look at your hands again, examining the open wounds. These wounds make you even more vulnerable, even more sensitive, but you decide it's worth it. You continue to reach down to pick the rose. Your hand begins to shake because you are scared, nervous, and excited. Finally, your hand brush past the roses petals, you grab the stem and pull.

A sense of relief washes over you. There is no secret to keep any more. You picked the rose, and it seems to have picked you. You exhale everything is going well, however, you continue to hold the rose delicately for you still fear its thorns. Your hands are still scarred, bleeding, and vulnerable, but you begin to trust this rose. It's beauty is unlike any other, in comparable. You begin to hold it a little tighter, a little closer. It's blue petals are bright and soft. And as you admire its beauty, you feel a sudden poke and a spreading warmth on your thumb. You look down and you see your own blood bubbling up. It was just a prick, but to you it is so much more.

You quickly throw the rose down because in your mind you know what comes next. You know you must separate yourself from this rose before it hurts you anymore. It has happened before and your scars begin to ache as you remember the previous cuts and pricks that you have received. This is a road you do not want to travel down again. You knew better than to pick the rose, but it seemed to want you to pick it. You look down where the rose lies on the ground, the rose doesn't know what it did or it just simply doesn't care. It just lies there not acknowledging what has happened. You don't acknowledge either. You don't know what to do, but you do know one thing. You will not get pricked by that rose again. It was just a prick and now the trust is gone and the fear and risk have elevated.

So you begin to walk away. You are sad, hurt, and alone, but you continue to put distance between you and that beautiful, blue rose—the beautiful, blue rose with thorns.