*There’s a little wooden house on the corner with a beautiful garden in the front.
It always ropes in the attention of the whole town when spring comes along.
The main attraction is a garden in the front with a small batch of roses.
These roses are beautiful with different shades of red coloring the vivid green bush it’s sprouting from.
But there’s one small purple rose amongst a bed of red, just a bit off to the right.
No one pays attention to this purple rose because of all the other red ones.
The purple rose is fragile and beautiful looking with frail looking petals making it unnoticed.
The lady that owns the little wooden house allows you to pick the roses just as long as you don’t hurt yourselves from the thorns.
No one dares pick the purple rose cause of the rigid and thorned spine it has.
I have a go at the chance to pick the purple rose. I reach out my arm as I grabbed the thorny spine of the rose.
Holding the spine with the fullness of palm, my hand sprouting out with the blood of countless mistakes and regrets.
But this, this was never a mistake that has ever been. It was an accomplishment that no one has ever dwelled upon.
My hand hurts with the blood coursing from the center of my palm running all the way down to my elbow.
Tears start to arise on the horizon of my eyes and a small crooked smile starts to wry on the side of my face.
I am happy, and filled with joyous emotions, emotions that I can never ever fathom of experiencing.
The magnificent purple looking rose resting in the palm of my blood encrusted hand.
“Her favorite color is purple…”*