To See a Dream
A rose that looks like sunshine,
Bright, but soft, butter yellow, with an edgy crimson outline,
floated in a vase alongside soft splatterings of Baby's Breath.
'Twas a gift.
It lived on the dresser;
my dresser in front of my bed.
Every morning, when the sun began to shine through my window,
the rose was the first thing I saw.
It had no thorns, it was perfect;
Perfection in a single flower:
I took a picture.
To capture the moment,
to capture the beauty before it began to wilt,
before it lost its perfection.
I would dream,
imagine that I would become an aspired singer,
that I could dance,
that I could be in the "In" society.
I would dream the impossible,
that I could be the first to count all the stars,
that I would sit on the porch with my love and enjoy morning hot chocolate,
that I could see the future God intended.
My reflections bloomed, like my rose.
They grew into a young woman of no horror in her life,
sheltered and nurtured under the love of parents and a close friend.
I woke up to my animal's playing and a resounding crash.
My shattered vase.
My gorgeous rose,
Baby's Breath and water all over the floor and under the dresser.
I cut my feet.
I cut my hands.
My rose had a tiny thorn under the wilted petals.
For you see,
I never saw the withered, ugly flower with a covered thorn.
I saw what I wanted to see;
A soft, but brilliant, yellow rose with edgy crimson outlines.
My dreams blended into the blood on my feet.
Reflections became none exsistant when I felt the pain of glass in my hands;
I saw my sheltered life sink into the puddle of water, slowly drifting under my bed.
With tears, I cleaned.
I scrubbed and threw away the pieces.
I bandaged the wounds and washed my eyes and cheeks.
Without aid,
I moved on.
Time told me of scars on my feet and hands.
All I can do is remember and glance at my framed, wilted rose;
the brittle petals cracked,
the stem a deep brown,
the thorns prominent and sharp.
I saw what I wanted to see.
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