Once there was a girl

Who plucked a rose from her garden every time she started loving someone

As though they were tiny parts of her heart

One for the little kid with his red ball and kites

One for the old lady who lived down the lane

One for her best friend whom she had planned a sleepover with

And so on

Time flew by and the people she loved grew

(As the roses in her garden decreased)

One for the blonde guy on the basketball team

Who got really angry when his team lost

And sometimes whose house she left with a bruise or two

One for the lead singer in her high school band

Who smoked cigarettes and played an electric guitar with angry fingers

One for the boy with the dreamy eyes

Who she believed to love her right

But no

He burned out her soul like a firewood hearth

Broke her like the windowpane of that old cottage

Sharp at the edges

Leaving an empty void in the place of her heart

Now she puts her roses to a better use

One for each slit on her arm

The color of the dripping blood deeper than the petals of the flower

So now there is a girl

Who plucks a rose every time she’s falling apart.



How well did the poem go? Tell me in the comments.

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