One single stem

If you had asked me would I love again, I'd have said no. The world was cruel, love was far from everlasting, and why would I risk being pricked by a seemingly endless amount of thorns only to pluck a flower that would surely wilt in time. I hadn't the desire to puncture and bleed from my empty arms in search of a temporary illusion. So at a young age, I wrecked the garden. I tore down the bushes and I covered the ground with dirt. I forgot that roses existed and I lived comfortably for many years.. sharing my space with nothing that blossomed, keeping my feet imbedded in the black ground. It rained. It rained, and it rained. For years, my soil became heavy and damp.. perhaps the rain came from my eyes.. perhaps it came from my heart. I had heard that to love something properly it had to be made from your hands, from your body and with the song of your soul. The day the rain stopped, the sun shone so bright it dragged from the dirt but a single red rose that had been stifled in the ground, a remnant of the bushes I had always feared. It grew tall, it grew proud. Bare of thorns and on a single stem it presented itself to me. I needn't pluck it. It would not puncture my arms or bring blood to my body. I was only to nurture it and it would remain beautiful and strong and loyal to me merely asking for my gentle hand in return.

My rose, my only love, I have waited, and I have grown you in time from my tears and my songs and in my garden you will last for a lifetime to come.


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