dried up rose petals

Poetry from the Soul

"He didn’t want me. He wanted a version of me that smiled all the time and never complained and didn’t exist."— Gone Girl

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Plucked from dew-soaked grass—
torn from her roots,
the harvesting of her soul began.

She clung to the gatherer,
waiting to be nurtured,
watered,
loved.

He watered her—
everyday,
when she began to wilt,
or just because.

She lived in the sun,
rays beaming from the sky—
its golden warmth soaked into her,
cherishing her,
soothing her.

He gave her gifts—
the vase she had always dreamed of,
a handmade lace tablecloth
to drape beneath her,
and the comfort of his constant company.

Her petals bloomed.
Their color deepened.
She became the pinnacle of beauty,
radiant in every realm of her God-given life.

Flowers of all kinds surrounded her:
the daisy with a cheerful giggle,
the lily who sang like an angel,
even a weed—
that had deceivingly charmed them all.

Then came the day
he tipped her vase—
it fell,
it shattered,
it broke.

"It won't happen again,"
he promised,
eyes full of sorrow.

She forgave him—
a simple mistake,
a fleeting misstep
she whispered to herself,
with a heart full of hope that aches.

Her vase now filled to the brim,
his eyes tracing her petals,
lingering on her stem,
her leaves—
never looking away.

Music filled the room,
flowers danced around her—
she was a display,
a beauty,
a charm upon his table.

They oohed,
they awed,
never ceasing to look,
to watch,
to admire,
to envy.

Yet, time passed;
her petals darkened to brown,
her stem began to droop.

The music had faded,
gifts were forgotten.
Her place no longer near the window—
but on the bookshelf,
stored away,
hidden in darkness.

The vase never tipped when she was bending—
only when she had blossomed again,
finally flourished,
and stood upright—resembling life.

Now, her vase had broken so often—
the memory of each crack
blurred and faded.
He no longer bothered to water her,
tend for her,
love her.

She waited desperately
for a drink,
a sip,
a drop—
anything to quench the thirst she carried;
to be nurtured,
to be cared for,
to be loved again—
not as petals,
not as leaves,
but as the rose she still is.

She felt forgotten,
silenced,
utterly alone—
even inside the house she once called home.

She was a beauty,
a message between love and sorrow—
accompanied by chocolates
or a handwritten note.

The symbol of restoration,
mending,
continuing,
becoming,
loving.

Words needed no voice in her presence—
she was the message.

Left forgotten,
unvalued,
unread,
and waiting—
waiting to be more than just dried up rose petals.

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