You may think a rose is honest; a simple flower ordained with the signifying power of love. But a lie is like a rose. For its superficial beauty, there is a stem of thorns to wound you when you try to grasp it.
You believe the lie can be preserved in the blushed bloom of the bud, concealed by the simplicity of beauty. But you cannot disregard the thorns. When you can’t confront the truth of your actions, you sow another seed. If you wanted to take the rose, uproot its duplicity from the soil, you were only scared of cutting your own fingers.
It’s a mistake that a rose should ever be in its monarchical position of love. Petals fall, thorns prick, and weeds grow. Why should something that is meant to be everlasting be confined to nature’s biggest, beautiful façade? The unmistakeable rouge only becomes brown and devoid of meaning.
Your floral enclosure with scents of bliss and its colourful charm, plentiful with petals, simply decorated your dishonesty. When you looked into my eyes, as I begged for clarity, you only saw your garden. You watered the roses with my tears and searched for new land across the country of my heart.
When you looked me in the eye, you should have looked at yourself. Every time you never told me what you had done, when the truth was absent from your tongue, you offered me another rose. All I have left are memories, which I fear will wither along with your garden.
Truth should not be something which is a privilege to know. Eye fused to eye, our hands interlocked, and our bodies welded together in a warm embrace, our hearts’ rhythms overpowering any words spoken, the garden became irrelevant to me.
Despite this all, I wanted to be in your rose garden. I loved my time there with you. The truth was not in season, and yet while the rose garden blooms all I do is lose.
Now I look to the lily, the bluebell, the sweet peas. The rose is overrated. It’s time to walk amid the forest rather than your garden. I guess it’s a walk I must do alone.
– Emily Coleman