I held on with dear care, to my flower of great beauty. I watched in trependation of the wind capturing my precious flower. I had found her lost upon the cold and barren floor. Her petals were untouched and perfectly formed, they illuminated a bright red colour.
The colour that many would associate with blood, however it reminded me of love. The kind of love that makes you wake up in the morning, the kind of love that makes you feel alive inside, the kind of love that everyone craves.
As I noticed these admirable traits of my flower, I began to fall in love with her even more, I delicately felt the silky feel of her petals, what started as a delicate touch turned into my finger clutching onto a petal and then into my whole hand incasing the silky flower. At that moment I felt empowered and I clenched my fist, obliterating all that remained in my merciless fist. Maybe they were right. Maybe there isn't a kind of love that makes you wake up in the morning, or a kind of love that makes you feel alive inside, or a kind of love that everyone craves. Perhaps the only red that exists is the red that marks blood.
-a.H
