Thornless Rose, Roseless Thorn
I was a rose.
Soft, silky petals. Bright, vibrant leaves. Gentle, floral scent.
I had no thorns.
The sun was warm, the breeze was gentle, the sky was blue, and I was happy. My gardener was kind. She watered me, cared for me, and pruned away all of my thorns.
"You have no need for these," She told me, and I believed her.
Then, one day, she didn't come; a man was there in her stead. His hands were large and rough when hers had been soft and gentle. He no longer pruned my thorns, but my blooms. Sold to the highest bidder.
Gone were my soft, silky petals. Gone were my bright, vibrant leaves. Gone was my gentle, floral scent.
And there now were my sharp, brutal thorns.
I was no longer beautiful, I was no longer kind. The sun was cold, the wind was strong, and the sky was dark.
I was no longer a rose. I had now become thorns.
Thornless rose to roseless thorns.
