The feeling of falseness in the eyes of spectators is so apparent that it makes her feel like decoration flowers.
Petals glistening with passive aggression as a feature rather than a flaw.
Stiff neck as a stem that never shrinks and always flaunts the tantalizing sensitivity of her femininity.
Sensuous skirt that wraps around **** legs like two grassy leaves wrapping around a sassy stem.
Like a rose, she doesn’t respect time. She is beautiful and wants everyone to know it.
But she knows it’s only a face, she knows everything that everyone finds beautiful will wilt away and she won’t be so pretty anymore
She knows that her delicate red will grow older and that her body will shrivel. So she replaces it with more false faces. Plastic pieces perpetrating personality. She is no longer a rose.
She is a decoration. For though she holds onto it, her beauty has respectively faded.
As she is no longer true.
She has kept the rosy figure, but the ***** of her life has faded.
And that which was beautiful will never be beautiful again.
For nobody wants a dusty rose.