Rose

Sorrow fills me. My bones drowned in anguish, my heart swarmed with wounds. Who will stay with me through this? Who will find me on the floor, unable to move, to speak, or to comfort? Those who I have known for centuries, walk past me in a blur. Each with their own story, and their own perspective of me. None of those are the real me, but a statue in their memory. I stand, not by choice, but because there is nothing else for me to do except to stand. Firmly, I hold onto the earth that catches me at every step, fall, and leap. My wounds soothed, my lungs expanded with freedom.

Nobody is here, except me, and my faith. My faith that everything will turn out alright in the end.

Flowers blossom in my brain, each flourishing with emotion. The petals containing my memories, of who I am, and who I used to be. I carry them confidently. My crown refusing to falter. The roses at my feet cease to slow down their growth. A deep red stains me, and my core.