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One Innocent White Rose

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I miss your hair the way the light hit it. The way it illuminated those strands of auburn amongst the dirty blonde. I loved how when I pointed this out to you you’re face lit a redder color than your hair ever could from the anger and embarrassment within your mind.

That mind. It left me with countless sleepless nights trying to make some sense of it. I never could, I believe that was the way you made it. You never could let anyone in too far; you’d been burned too many times.

Someone once told me that secrets keep us close. I thought the analysis was intriguing and clever. Now I know why they remained anonymous. You’re secret was what drove us apart. Your choice to keep this a secret is why I write this. How could you leave me with this much guilt? Did you ever even love me? Why do I stand here with a single rose in one hand and fresh soil in the other? Secrets are what drove us apart my love. I should have seen it from far away, I was a fool, I apologise. I should of seen you were too weak to carry on, and I to carry both our tired feet. I should have betrayed your trust, should have told someone.

Every night I seemed to find myself five minutes before my digital clock turned another day. I watched the numbers bleed into each other, praying that your arms weren’t in similar position. Then the clock would turn 11:59, and I would wait, wait for the longest minute of the day to end and hope tomorrow would be a better day, dare to think it might be over. It never did.

As time went on, you got worse, and I became weaker. As time went on others began to see the warning signs I was witness to for such a long time. They came in with all the best intentions, but only managed to remove you further from my arms. They taught they knew best, forcing you to talk. You were never a talker; you once said that thoughts were silent for a reason. To others you were the freak at the back left corner of the classroom, always there but never there. Then you became the girls with the bracelets and rumours went wherever your feet walked.

That's when the final stings of your damaged curtains tore. That's when I got the call from your weeping mother at three in the morning from the emergency room.
I held her hand that night, it was clammy and sweaty, and they made me uncomfortable. Your mother had done so much to hurt you, and there she sat as the V.I.P. in the surgery waiting room. And I the one who always listened, who never judged, was quickly forgotten when a cup of coffee came to replace my hand.

Here I am my love; here I stand beside your grave. Not ten minutes ago have they all left to “celebrate” the life they ruined. And I am left to weep and grieve at the only love I had. I wonder did you ever feel loved by them, did you ever feel the full extinct of mine? I place my palm flat against the granite headstone, the closest I've been to you in a long time. I place the single white rose of innocent amongst the dozen of red. The people whom the roses represent never really understood. They simply bought the flowers out of obligation, their all back to the hustle and bustle by now. But I with my single rose of innocence have shown the truth. You, your life, the epitome of innocence, never harmed a soul, but they all harmed you.



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