Teardrops and Rose Petals

Some people are “beautiful yet scary, evil yet lovely. Bittersweet. Cold yet welcoming.”
The girl here was probably inspired by Liesel Meiminger from The Book Thief (I’m still reading it)…

Beautiful teardrops fall on rose petals. The petals bend lightly as the drops of tears move in slow motion from petal to petal, finally falling off to the floor. They hit the floor, a drop at a time. Clear grey floor, clean drops of tears. Rose petals, like pages written in the life of the young girl crying. Yellow shades made on pink petals… the smiles, the pains, the hard times. How they all blended in one petal, one life, one person. Sun kissed petals, upturned, they must have jumped up and down when they saw the sun peep from behind the clouds. They must have seen this girl jump up and down when she had sunny days she could play too. Some petals, a very dark pink, curled away from her, never taking in any of her tears. They were the ones that cried with her. They were the ones that were saturated with tears themselves. Too much to take in. So young, so tender, yet so much to take in. At this point they can’t take it any longer. Petal after petal, they fall off… they drop to the floor along with the tears. Day after day, sunshine and rain. Beautiful days, beautiful friends, beautiful things to think of. Her soft, silky hair falls off her shoulders onto her fingers. The fingers hold tight onto the rose thorns. She holds onto them even when they pierce her skin. The petals litter the floor but in a sinister kind of way… beautiful yet scary, evil yet lovely. Bittersweet. Cold yet welcoming. Slowly, slowly… as if her life depended on it, she lowers her hand and breathes in courage she never had. Courage to drop the rose, the one that killed her and kept her alive at the same time. She lets go of the rose, a finger at a time, until she loses the grip altogether. It falls off and without a backward glance the girl runs. Her bare feet run as fast as they could possibly take her, her red dress sweeps behind her and her brown hair dances with the wind that follows. She leaves the memories in the rose petals that someone else would collect.


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