white rose, dead rose.

wine and die.

I spotted you in the rose garden when I was walking home. You are the white one in the sea of red roses. You stand out, not unlike the best-dressed lady at the gala. The curves on your stem are telling: they ascend in circles that plead to form the perfect shapely rose you are. The thorns are your imperfections sticking out of you in an orderly manner. They tell me that they are you, and you are them, and they threaten to make me bleed. I cannot overlook your thorns. I can only accept them.

I cannot sleep that night; your image keeps appearing in my head — the image of white in the sea of red, of the ugly duck among its siblings in an alternate world; it is telling of you. I wonder if you belong there, you seem not to fit because of your color, but you blend in perfectly. It is your white that gives the red roses that grow closer around you the bloodstained look while you stand majestically in their midst like an angel, complete with wings and a halo.

Release me, angel. I pray thee. I have a long day ahead of me.

I pass the rose garden again but with my water bottle in hand this time, and face the rose bush. I start the journey to you, tiptoeing through the garden to get to you and sprinkle a dash of water on you. I want to watch you blossom.

The journey is longer than I expected. No matter how much I try to avoid stepping on the red roses, they injure me — they draw my blood with every step. No matter how fast I move, you seem to draw deeper into the bush. My legs are bloody now, and yet I refuse to stop. All of a sudden, there you are, angel. I water you and watch you lovingly for a while, and it seems like the sun has come out. I cannot watch you blossom, for I have to be on my way to work with bloody feet.

I water you every day till I have to bandage my feet, and yet the thorns keep ripping the bandage, and they seem to get harsher, fiercer every time I step into that rose garden. Almost as if they do not want me to water you, my angel. But who cares what they want?

I do not care. I do not care if I suffer or if they make me bleed. I want to watch you blossom and grow to high heavens.

But the pain I cannot endure, and as I go one night to lay my head, you are all that is there, and I begin to think of uprooting you and bringing you to live with me. It seems a perfect idea. I would watch you open every morning and water you before I leave the house. I would open my windows to allow sunlight to stream in and flood you with all the love you would ever need. I go to sleep with a smile on my face. No more of my blood will be spilled.

The next day I am standing at the edge of the rose garden, ready for another round of my blood being drawn. It is worth it if it is the last time. I start my journey into the middle, and this time the red roses attack me as usual. I ignore the pain and trudge on towards the center.

Towards you.

I grasp your stem lovingly and softly pull you from the earth. I brace myself for another round of pain going back out, but to my astonishment, I feel no pain. I walk out without any new bruises, and I am relieved, disappointed even. The red roses have witnessed my display of love and reciprocated with admiration.

That night I watch you on my bedstand with the windows open. I cannot sleep again for fear that you would have flown out back to your rose garden. But you would not do that. You are happy with me. The thought comforts me to sleep.

I wake up to the most horrifying sight: you, shriveled, useless, rotten on my bedstand. I cannot fathom what has happened to my angel. You were beautiful yesterday, and yet today has come, and you are … well, no longer as beautiful as you used to be, my love. What did I do wrong? Is it water? Light? I thought I provided everything.

That evening, I bury you in my backyard.

I lay down beside the grave and weep for my white rose, my angel.

from Victor with love.

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