The prettiest of roses has the mist of thorns.
Stuck to their side, they hope for someone to cut them off.
Cut down the walls hiding the truth of inner horror.
The black rose had the most.
The black rose was a legend among the world of lillies and valleys blooming.
The black rose sat in the dirty dust of unkempt soil patiently.
The rose wondered if anyone would remove their thorns of remorse stuck into their side.
Trust was a tricky thing, as people would rather take their petals than their thorns off.
Then came a boy.
He wandered across the lands like no other and was searching for something else, not the black rose.
He still stumbled across the daises and lilacs, finding the unkept soil.
The black rose saw and wondered aloud. "Are you here for my petals?"
The boy only smiled. "I am here for a friend."
And the boy stayed. He slowly cut off all the thorns, revealing the flowers' true nature.
A vulnerable person.
A vulnerable person in need of healing from their cut thorns being gone so easily.
The boy was hurt from his travels, in need of healing from the flowers he stumbled over.
Together, the most vulnerable and hurt can heal.
Together.
I love you, my boy who stumbled across my thorns and removed them.
I can't say your name directly, but you know who you are.
