She was wilted rose, her petals wrinkled and curled inwards. Her petals that had lost their colors, dull lifeless petals. She was the wilted rose pressed between heavy, emotion filled words of a book. She stays pressed, the words engraved on her petals like a manuscript from the past.
But every once in a while, some who is willing to read the heavy words thoroughly find her pressed between pages, struggling to get herself together from falling apart like a broken autumn leaf. She struggles to keep herself alive through the passionate words.
But the wrinkled petals, the withered leaves is what makes her beautiful. The manuscripts of the past engraved on her soft pale skin, shimmering every time someone is willing to listen to her. And in the moment they see her beauty, the beauty of a Wilted rose.