The rose that I foster gives me no oxygen.
It has been plucked from the bouquet,
Isolated,
Meant only for its thorns to pierce,
To prick
The blankness of my fingers.
I stare at the rose.
It’s sweet scent draws me in,
Still I remember that it cannot help me breathe.
Others are intoxicated by the sweet perfume,
I only can wonder what it might be:
Is it radiant beams of light filling the space between the petals?
Water after a drought providing nourishment?
Or the sight of his eyes as he smiles?
I have always wanted red roses and a white dress
Marking a day on which I fill my lungs to capacity.
But as this terrible rose grows I start to resent its
Gaining in strength despite that I am suffocating.
It somehow survives,
Fed by my hopes that I naively continue to expect won’t be empty.
I am pressed against the window of a florist’s.
I can almost see the velveteen petals
Peeking out from behind the snowflaked vases
Behind the icy windows.
Sputtering, choking, the corners of my vision are going dark.
The image is twice-blurred, but soon the store will open.
I would like a different flower.
The store will open soon?
It must.
I cannot breathe.
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