A supple seedling sought sustenance and discovered sanctuary in my palm. In brief time, its roots burrowed under my skin and siphoned life from my veins. Nurtured by my warmth, nourished by my blood, at last the seedling blossomed in my unclosing hand—a ravishing crimson rose, in and of itself proof of God and His artistry. Every day, I gazed upon this rose in scrutinizing admiration, watching it grow more exquisite by the minute. Each beat of my heart pumped precious life to this rose, grafting our souls together—I could feel it breathe, could taste the sun, could feel the wind on its petals as if against my own flesh.

But how I regret, in one single act of angered negligence, I clenched my fist and crushed this rose, perfect rose that I adored—in turn, destroying a part of my soul as crimson dripped from between my fingers.