The rose is one of the most beautiful flowers.
Its red petals bright and brilliant.
When the season comes for the rose to return, it sprouts.
Eventually this rose will start to show its red.
Their wrists are all different colors.
Some are pale and some are tan.
Some are in between.
The blood flowing through their veins is blue.
Like the green, blood doesn't show its red color until it gets to the surface.
The blade is a shiny metallic silver.
The edge is dangerously sharp..
One clean swipe is all it would take.
The rose starts to bud.
Slowly but surely showing more res as the weeks pass on.
The scars don't go away.
Each one shows more red as the days go by.
Each one deeper than the others.
One last clean spot, untouched by the blade.
The last resort.
It has been saved for so long.
The rose starts to bloom.
The petals opening up and looking like a crown.
Perfection is all these petals can be.
The thorns just beconing for contact.
Everything about the rose is so alluring.
Beauty and power eliminate from it.
That silver blade isnow stained with red and brown.
It hides under a pillow.
Waiting for its next chance.
Smudged with fingerprints.
The metallic look is gone.
This wound hurts so much, it's finally time.
They laughed and said mean things.
No one did anything to help.
Tolerating the pain is not an option anymore.
It is finally time.
The rose is finally in full bloom.
As red as blood.
It is considered the most beautiful, but it is also the most devious.
Looks can deceive.
The blade is released from its pillow prison.
Looking as evil as ever.
Never bringing relief.
Placed upon that spot of clean flesh.
It makes its assault.
Cutting the deepest it ever has.
The rose wilts.
All color fading with the season.
Blood rushes to the surface.
Skin splits as the blade goes down the arm.
The blade giving no mercy.
Color draining from their faces.
Life leaving their bodies.
The rose dies.
The blade is still in the cold dead hand of the teenagers that drop to the floor.