I sit there on the cold hard concrete floor, surrounded by the rotten remains of the fresh roses I had picked out earlier from my very own garden.
A garden buried deep inside my heart, nurtured everyday with affection, shielded from all brutality, showered with every ounce of happiness within me even on those dry days where my own glee was scarce. Everyday I would pick out roses for you, each blooming with trust, respect, love, not caring as the thorns and roots pierced and took a part of heart with every rose I plucked. I would silently bear the agony as I felt tiny parts of my soul tearing it's away out of my body and infusing themselves in the soft petals, enveloping them in its essence.
Every day I gladly gave more and more of myself to you wrapped in those miniature petals, little extracts of who I am, my efforts making up the scent of each petal. Each little rose represented a part of my soul which I so readily shared with you with no regrets, just pure bliss.
Until one day you snatched the flowers right out of hands, ripping my heart apart as you tossed them down, stamping on them with those all too familiar feet, tearing each petal, each little shred of my soul apart, dulling the shine I painted on them with my love, rendering them worthless. You left me gasping for air, with tears running down my cheeks surrounded by the little pieces of broken flowers, and shattered remains of my soul.
YOU ARE READING
Just Another Diary
Non-FictionThis isn't a story. It's a collection of thoughts, thoughts I'm sure all teens go through.
