Blooming Metaphor

I was only an inch from reaching out and
touching that rose. My fingers were
seconds away from brushing that deep
red flower, and I had thoughts of cutting
the stem and bringing it home with me-
keeping it in a vase near my heart and
kissing its soft petals when I went to
bed. But as I drew closer, leaning over
to bury my nose in its fragrance, a thick
line of thorns snapped back from where
I had pulled them. It snapped against my
neck, leaving a tiny, thin mark that ripped
as I tried to pull away. I did not cry out
as it stung my flesh. I did not blame the
rose for the thorns that had cut me; I
blamed myself for reaching for the rose.

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