elisabel king.

imagine you are a rose: 
so graceful and filled with beauty, with nothing but a sweet aroma of vanity. the pure idea of perfection; the queen of flowers.
now imagine losing a petal:
not whole, yet still complete; somehow not as perfect as before, but never the same. 
now imagine you are a rose, sitting by the window alone for vanity:
you wither, and you wither; you wither and die. 
it is not so fun being a rose anymore, is it?

romantic third person literate anonymous.