I see myself as a rose. Colorful enough to catch your attention, yet dangerous if not held with care. I worry about pricking you. How fitting it is that the flower that tends to represent love seems as risky as it is beautiful. We all have our demons to fight, we all have reasons that our days are dimmer than they should be. I don’t want to be one of yours. I’m trying to come to terms with the fact that I have the capacity to ruin just as much as I can reconstruct. I’m trying to come to terms with the fact that some days you will not be smiling and I will be the cause. Tell me, am I worth bleeding for? Am I worth the inevitable pain in your fingers? On days when there isn’t enough vibrancy to offset my thorns, will I still make sense to you? I don’t want to be just another rose. There are many out there by the dozen, but I want to be special to you. Maybe it’s naive of me to want my petals caressed by your fingertips. Maybe it’s naive of me to want you to find something worth staying for in this fragile smile of mine. Or maybe, maybe, I just love you and that’s okay.. I made you bleed enough for me to slip away, and it's something I'll always regret.