The Rose The Wall and The Storm

Sometime I wrote as a reaction to my inability to open up to people, sporting a facade of strenth.

To all the world I am as strong as stone. On the inside I am as frail and fragile as a rose caught in a violent winter storm. And no one will ever truly know. No one can get passed my wall or the shield of a blizzard. I will be too broken before they can reach me. I cannot be saved. Who would view a thorny petal-less rose to be worth saving anyway? I would crumble on contact. And that is not worth the wall and my storm. There can be no satisfaction from a victory like that. And with no one able to get in, how could I ever expect to get out? To escape myself and see the sun again. I have tried. And all I do is circle back, lost in my own fierce and fortified prison wall. I would be as frail as ever. I lose my petals with every attempt. Help me. I have too few petals left. The last to fall will be my undoing. Help me, save me, before the last petal flutters to the snow clad ground, and the rose passes on...