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The Ink Stained Rose
February 23, 2012
I was told that when this rose lost all of it’s petals, my life would end. I took the rose in my small infant hands. It was a black rose that matched my hair. The petals were silky when I rubbed my nose into them. To me most roses smell like raspberries, but this one smelled like nothing. I took another big sniff. When I pulled my head back a single dark petal fell to the floor.
Now I rest my head on a table. A few inches from my nose is my rose. There is one more petal left.
© Liza C., Seattle, WA
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