You once had a blossoming rosebush. Lush with periwinkle peonies, baby blue baby's-breath, crimson carnations. You plucked a flower for me, a rose so beautifully breathtaking which you compared to my own flawed features in the most poetic prose. I graciously accepted your gorgeous gift, careful that my fingers wouldn't graze the thorns which adorned the deep green stem. I held it close, embracing your token of affection with a pounding heart full of humbly hesitant adoration. But I picked apart the pieces, I skeptically played with the pretty petals. I analyzed their cajoling strokes of coaxing color until the flower wilted warily. And when I asked you for another, your face flushed and your truth trembled. You led me to your rosebush, which was now an utterly dull disappointment. For I saw then that you had wasted away all of the flowers on girls just like me, destroying the beauty which had once flourished in that tempting rosebush, and now you had no more love to give me.