I am a white rose,
I have flaws, thorns that people consistently complain and whine when pricked with, when they were the ones to interject on my isolation.
They slash my stem, to only give me away to another.
They put me on display, only to watch me suffer.
They are only upset when I die, as they did not cherish me in my times of hollow life.
They pull off my petals, painfully, one at a time.
They throw my corpse to the dirt and fragments of my body tossed in the air in celebration as if unable to endure me intact.
I am the flora of love, yet I am represented in the ceremony of the fellow dead, but of the species that maimed me.
I am the symbol of purity, yet my veins run dry, and I just blister away.