What was left of the precious rose was laying face down,
abused by the one who once gave it life.
Her red, thick curls in a heap, scattered around her shaking body.
This deep beautiful flower’s thorns weren’t strong enough to protect this time.
They couldn’t shield her from the one who once brought her joy and encouragement,
trying to tame her with his only weapon
his only form of power
his bottle.
She fought the smell as long as she could,
tossing and turning her head,
trying to escape his grasp from the powerful hands that once cradled her tiny body.
Tears strolled down her face as she waited,
waited for the day she could leave . . .
the day she could find fresh water
the day she could heal and become the royal red flawless flower
she should be
the day she turned eighteen.