Thorns of My Rose

 

I found what I thought to be the most beautiful rose, so I plucked it from the ground. In return for plucking it, it's thorn pierced my skin and I bled. I dropped the rose instinctively and a droplet of my blood followed close behind and landed upon its soft petals.

The rose was quite extraordinary,  unlike any I've ever seen of it's kind. I thought it may even have a bit of magic to it. 

 If you pluck a flower from the earth in a few days hence, it will die. But that cannot be said of my rose.

My rose continued to thrive, and each time I was taken by its beauty I'd reach to hold it, it's thorns would pierce my skin and I would bleed.

My rose refused to die. Instead, it stood tall and proud, like it knew these rules regarding its own life expectancy, yet it held itself strong; defiant even.

Over the course of time, this flower never wilted, it never lost a petal, nor lost the beauty of its color. Instead it changed color often, like that of a chameleon. And again every time I reached to hold it, it reminded me why I shouldn't. Like it was angry with me. It seemed to no longer permeate its scent just held fast in its determination to make me bleed.

So what do I do with it now? I admired it still, but it seemed to treasure its freedom from me, so I left it alone.

In my sadness, I'd went for a walk. During the course of my walk, I came upon a bed of carnations. Learning my lesson from last time, I sat amongst them instead and enjoyed their scent, and was even allowed to caress their petals, until I took solely to the company of one in particular.

My visits with this carnation became an almost daily occurrence.

 It seemed to appreciate that I let it be instead of taking it from its home. When I confessed my story of the rose, the carnation listened with a sympathetic understanding. It made a suggestion to me in regards of what to do with this rose.

 So I returned home with the hopes of reasoning with the rose and giving it, its freedom from me if it so chose. But when I got home, to my regret I found the rose had wilted.

I spent the night trying to foolishly get the rose to speak to me, but it refused. It had kept its silence since the moment I'd brought it home. Giving in, I told the rose I would return it to where I'd found it and replant it.

But by morning's first light, the rose had withered and died. I took it out to bury it and when I laid it down for the earth to reclaim its own, the rose's thorn punctured thru my skin again, causing me to bleed.

It didn't surprise me this time, as it had in the beginning.

I was used to the bleeding by now.