𝑨 𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝑻𝒐 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑽𝒐𝒊𝒅 [ 𝐶𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑑 ]

Roses

Red thorny roses were not my type. I was a great sucker for wild dandelions, white carnations, crimson pink peonies, colorful orchids and yellow big sunflowers. As a book-dipped teenager who grew up in the tearful pages of Austen and heartwrenching words of Shakespear, I used to pick out those by the little garden in the backyard of my grandmother, plucking the petals one by one, hoping to know whether my soul was loved or not. I was into the dripping roseate splendor over books - the pages were folded, but never did I put a rose in between its pages. I never dared to put a rose on my book, letting it wilt until it would kiss its own death. I disgusted the thought about my books, becoming the deathbed of roses - I didn't want that.

These august flowers that I have mentioned above have mastered the art of not being seen - roses took the limelight from them. Roses were the best actresses of valentine's day, claiming to be the symbol of love and even starred in the classical tale of Beauty and the Beast, like a vogue thespian in the city of love.

I do not want roses, so quit handing me those at lunch, quit gluing roses on my locker: roses are cliché and so are you. You beg my pardon? Roses do not open the doors of love - handing a rose to your lovey-dovey doesn't guarantee a happy ending. Agonizingly, rose is just one of the collection of love's wrong symbols and us? Just a mere collection of love's cannot be.