They only saw her dimensions
As though there were no curves in her edges
Treated her like she was just a box,
Picking at her the way they would pick at locks,
Trying to steal her internal content,
Showing her how society circles bent,
That if she hadn't followed trends,
There'd be no light at tunnel's end.

So thorns were pricked of the rose,
Leaving her completely exposed,
As though she was part of shows,
Because people only saw her looks.
Roses wilt and wither
And what made her her, vanished with her.
She became a walking advertising sign,
For what it meant to colour within the line.