When I was a little girl, my mom used to teach me about roses.

She used to grow white ones in our garden behind the white picket fence.

Everyone seemed to want a rose and she always gave them away.

But she always saved one just for me, her pretty baby

One day He burned down the rose tree and the white roses were gone.

White, Pretty, perfect petals gone with the flames

Her kindness gone with the kindle

That was the last time I saw a white rose.

Eleven years later, someone new bought me a black one made of plastic.

He taught me about different things:

white lines and pleasure.

He had long black hair, black eyes, and the burden of the world on his shoulders.

He always said that I’m pretty when I cry.

He was a beautiful red rose:

Fragile with Thorns.

His Thorns made me bleed. My white sheets turned red and the pain turned into numbness.

I didn’t have any more blood left in my body.

He burned my soul and, one day, like every other rose, he withered away.

I’m not a little girl anymore and I have my own rose garden.

I grow red ones and white ones.

Everyone always wants one but I keep them all to myself.

I suppose I’m not as kind as my mother.

Every now and then, I take out the black rose