Prick
It was just an average flower. One among the many in the foliage, common and plain looking, it never stood out. I can't quite recall how and when I started staring at this sole blossom.
Everyday I would look forward to the afternoon when I would stroll down the bush were it sprouted. I would gaze at it, tilting my head strenuously in impossible angles to examine every petal and leaf. It didn't give off a fancy fragrance, fortunately, since I was allergic.
The time came when I finally decided to pick it. Using the pair of pinking shears from the kitchen, I cut it from the bush, leaving a thorny stem of fair length. With the tip of my fingers, I held it by the stem. Gently and carefully avoiding the thorns, I twirled it, as it resembled a miniature ballerina dancing on top of a music box...
The scars on my right palm are disappearing, gradually. The bloodstain on the lace of my right sneaker has dried to a dull shade of brown. I still wish to pick up the flower by the bush where it lies. But every time I come near it, the sight of the same thorns, albeit thicker and intimidating, brings me back to my senses.
It will never ever be mine. From the very beginning, I have been perfectly aware of that. After all, it's Lisa's flower.
It was just an average flower. One among the many in the foliage, common and plain looking, it never stood out. I can't quite recall how and when I started staring at this sole blossom.
Everyday I would look forward to the afternoon when I would stroll down the bush were it sprouted. I would gaze at it, tilting my head strenuously in impossible angles to examine every petal and leaf. It didn't give off a fancy fragrance, fortunately, since I was allergic.
The time came when I finally decided to pick it. Using the pair of pinking shears from the kitchen, I cut it from the bush, leaving a thorny stem of fair length. With the tip of my fingers, I held it by the stem. Gently and carefully avoiding the thorns, I twirled it, as it resembled a miniature ballerina dancing on top of a music box...
The scars on my right palm are disappearing, gradually. The bloodstain on the lace of my right sneaker has dried to a dull shade of brown. I still wish to pick up the flower by the bush where it lies. But every time I come near it, the sight of the same thorns, albeit thicker and intimidating, brings me back to my senses.
It will never ever be mine. From the very beginning, I have been perfectly aware of that. After all, it's Lisa's flower.
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