I used to have a rosebush like us.

Well, kind of like us. I think it was bigger and more real than us. But I like to think we were that way sometimes.

It grew in the backyard in what was left of the garden, which had become overgrown with weeds, dead grass and a big hole. I’m not sure that’s part of the metaphor, but there it is.
It started pretty innocent, but grew quickly. The blooms were large, pink and deliciously fragrant.
Aside from that, it wasn’t the most glorious plant to behold. I was too young to know how to take care of it right; caterpillars and other bugs would put holes in the petals, and the leaves developed rugged edges. Again, not sure about the metaphor.
It got sick, until it became nothing but a stub of dried sticks. But I could have sworn I saw some vestiges of green in the stems, and thought it might still live. So I kept it around for a while.

You know, nothing really happened. I wound up throwing it out. I don’t think it would have really recovered from its state of staleness.