the roses

your warm hands holding mine

my hands now dripping,

dripping onto you. the blade made a straight line.

the warmth that's in my hands slipped

onto yours. you know what you did,

you know that the pain ripped

it all apart. you can tell the pain has broken the threshold lid.

the rose we once had, the red

now darker, the thorns sharper than ever.

the thorns, no matter how sharp, would never cut. never.

the rose fell to the floor, 

now you walk out the door.

the blood runs down the side of the rose as it withers into nothing, the grey withered petals become covered in blood, they become red once again, but their beauty is never restored. your eyes devoid of hope, a simple yet terrifying glaze comes over your eyes. it's obvious the pain runs through your body, controlling it, bringing only a faint smile to your face. your wrists dripping with blood, the white rose on the floor becomes slowly coloured. it's beauty doesn't even compare to that of the red rose in the end.

Now the violet rose. the most broken of lthem all, yet the most beautiful, even with all its open scars, it grows steadily, grows more perfect. in the beguining there was the red rose. who's beauty false, then came the impure white, and lastly this. the one which is still living, the one who's beauty greatly surpasses the privious. but is still dwarfed by the beauty of she who will always tend to this one.

slowly, the violet roses loses its petals with each violent note said. in the end when the rose had only three petals left... both the rose and she fell apart.