When will they see me, a pretty, pink rose petal?
The urge to handle gently, and smooth me through their finger tips.
Or the urge to destroy, rip me piece by piece, and muddle me under their shoe.
It seems I am not worthy of such instincts.
Innocently, you pull me from my stem, with the intention to behold and cherish me. I forget to ask if, perhaps, you'd like my flower too. I mistake your innocence for love.
In your pocket I am kept. You feel better knowing I am close. I am happy to be close. You smile everytime you think of me. How sweet. You wish to hold onto me forever. How kind.
Naivety, you forget I am a petal, or perhaps you never even knew. You forget to put me in the pages of your book. I must be warm inside your dark, denim pocket...
When I am remembered, it's too late. The washer has run me through. I am dirty. I am broken. I am no longer a petal.
When will they see me, a tragic, wilted rose petal?
The urge to put me to rest peacefully, to cherish the beautiful memories, to pray for regrowth as they lay me gently in the garden.
Or the urge to cringe at my crinkled mess, toss me in the garbage, rinse me from my vase, sweep up every nagging speck of me from their floor.
It seems I am only shame.
The love for me, you regret. Mistakenly, you thought I could be forever on my own, but pink does not become brighter in the dark. I am left, decayed, freyed, a mess. Your tears fall only for the petal I am not.
You don't claim the jeans with the pocket...
Knowing you did something wrong, and knowing no one else can make it right.
You grow from your mistakes. I rot.