I am like a rosebush.
Beautiful from afar.
Blooms you want to see and smell forever.
But you get hurt if you get too close.
I fade quickly and easily; my beauty lasts but for a moment.
Many have tried pruning me.
Cutting away the negatives, trying to take away the parts of me that they deem unsightly.
But eventually, they all got sick and tired of the effort it took to make me beautiful.
Make me safe.
But you don’t.
You see the thorns and dare to pick my flowers anyway.
You don’t mind them.
They’re just another part of me, you say.
You do everything right. You water and weed me, nourish and love me, when others starved me and wondered why I never grew.
You love my thorns.
You help me grow to be a more beautiful person.
It was not I who was a bad rose.
I just hadn’t found the right gardener.