Someone I loved once picked me a cactus rose because I said it was pretty. And because they endured the thorns to give it to me that rose became so much more beautiful.
Someone once told me that death isn't an escape. That death just passes the pain to someone else. And I'm aware they probably meant suicide, but when someone I love died of cancer they may not have been in pain anymore, but I sure was.
Pain makes love more beautiful and love makes pain hurt so much more. The rose was beautiful because of the pain of the thorns. Without the rose the person who picked it wouldn't have decided the thorns were worth enduring.
The pain of the thorns, though, got equal with me when the giver of the cactus rose died.
And in a cruel twist of fate, their death just made the cactus rose the most beautiful thing I'd ever see.
YOU ARE READING
We as Humans
PoetryGolden threads from a dirt human. Poetry and philosophy that I write for me and share for you. (Cover art by Gabriel Levesque/@oskadesign)
