She was the prettiest rose,
a dainty colour, that had the misfortune of
being cast and thrown away.
Now she lies somewhere on the cold ground,
in the heat of summer,
her roots wept out all their last collected water,
and her leaves finished all the surmounted nutrition saved for later,
now she's devoid of life.
The other flowers, once jealous of her exquisite brilliance,
now never bother to look over at her,
haughtily turning away, not even caring to notice the way
her thorns have curled outward, bleeding the deepest shade
of maroon.
They never saw beneath that facade, that wall of
sarcasm, laughter, and jokes,
acted as if they'd never witnessed the bloodshot eyes,
and the way she looked, as if she would drown
in the ocean filled with her own salty tears.
Now, sitting idly in the middle of the road,
pale, white, and feverish, she gazes up at the life
that still goes on.
She whispers into the dark colours of the night,
breath curling like smoke from chapped lips,
her story, and her single wish.