(this isnt a rose fanfic.) A rose with a thousand thorns.

Music.

I dont like how guitars remind me of home.

No matter what I'll always idolize the guitar. But never could i possibly play it. I dont have hands that could gently glide across the strings, synchronized with every movement occuring.

My fingers bleed, dripping onto the wood. Staining the comfort of its sound.
My hands were made too roughly. Life has made them that way. Made to strike against delicate material.

Made to fight, never dance.

Forced to the background no matter how loud i make a sound, Like the cry of a wild animal, only warning the other animals to run but never will they in my direction.

My hands have always known where to strike.
But only in ways to make it hurt.

They were made for the drums, never the guitar.

I wish i was taught how to be home, how to dance across the strings, how to flow with the sound of the wind, how to make keys sound as if life themselves pressed them.
But i can't.

I just wish i could find solace in being this way. But the guitar is the sound of home. And the drums are the sound of my life.