She stopped and smelled the roses, all of them.
You were so good at hiding all the bad into something that looks too good to be harmful. You hide the thorns from her in plain sight. When she looks down at the blood on her hands, you convince her that it is the blessing of the bunch of roses in her hands.
They're not roses ...
Are they?
No
they're stop signs, caution signs that you've turned into beauty before she could even question them.
She stopped and smelled the roses, all of them.
They did not smell pretty.
If deceit had a smell it would smell like a graveyard, it would smell like the earth of the earth that has fallen around the people in their resting places that will never grace the earth again and wash the smell of their fate from their body. It would smell like the earth that is trying to tell her a story that she has become nose-blinded to. Red flags were a thing and they swung like flags, warning her that people like her, innocent like her, pour of heart like her those of who are just looking for love are not welcomed in this situationship that will not last, that her heart will not survive, walking out of the war with PTSD; but you knew that was going to happen didn't you? You knew that she was going to fall and get hurt eventually. You know that when she goes to pick her head off of the ground the gravel that she fell on will fall down her shirt and turn into a cobblestone exterior, an exterior that you know she would not maintain, that will deter people from, but will somehow leave you convinced it will always be yours.
She no longer smells roses, none of them.
They'll remind her of you.
No comments:
Post a Comment