I picked the rose in the garden, and the thorns ripped open my flesh, carelessly dragging skin back as the red petals freed themselves from the tangle of deadly spears. Red blossomed from under my skin, a brilliant scarlet second only to the rose. I wondered what in the world I was doing in this perfect little garden, thinking I could take something so beautiful as my own. The rose seemed to whither before my eyes and I regretted removing it. It would be better leaving it here, in this quiet, beautiful world. It struck me that I always mess things up, by being greedy, by just wanting more. By wanting something so beautiful, so perfect, that its not realistic to take it when I find it. And look at where I am now. Bleeding for a stupid rose that never meant anything anyway. Objectively, now, I could see it wasn’t that pretty. A bright color maybe, but rather simple. Not worth injury. Why had I been so in love with it? I looked at my cut, and then looked at my rose. It reminds me of you.