Bouquet

🌹Introduction🌹

Growing up, josh had trouble picking apart roses from thorns. He often found a beautiful bud amidst many tangled vines but, no matter how hard he tried, he could never quite reach it without tearing his skin to thin little pink shreds. By the time he did eventually fumble his way beyond the brambles, the flower had already wilted and the petals imitated snowflakes as they gracefully slid to the floor.

Of course, he would patch himself up, only to repeat history yet again as he continues searching for the perfect rose to complete his bouquet. Infections are systematically dealt with; pain passes.

These roses somehow appeared so effortlessly beautiful to his eye and it was only after he had multiple thorns dotted across his wrists and poking into his sides that things became rather sour. Suddenly the soft aroma suffocating the rose was a little too sickly, and the vibrant fuchsia was much less enticing. The colour caused an ache to haunt his eyes; the smell burning his nostrils like the stench of smoke billowing around a cigarette.

His whole life, josh was stepped on. He was used and tossed away like a bartender's rag, and somehow was too oblivious to notice the petals gradually falling off these nasty roses one by one in a 'loves me - loves me not' motion. Inevitably the final petal would drop to the dirt and three words would echo through joshua's ears and forearms: cemented with the help of one poisonous sharpie.

Bliss became pain; pain became anger; anger became pessimism; pessimism became sadness; sadness looped back to pessimism.

The way joshua began to deal with his "funk", as his mother called it, was to imagine people as roses.

His relationships were tales waiting to be told and conversations were petals crumbling under his toes. Hugs were the love-mes. Arguments were the love-me-nots.

It was pretty simple, really - if the love-me-nots tip over the see-saw then joshua can either water the wiltering plant or let go and leave it to die.

All relationships are roses. Yellow roses. Pink roses. Red roses.

A cliché. A simple cliché that helped to deal with the salt constantly poured into the tiny potholes in his skin caused by sharp thorns.

Yellow roses are the strongest in his opinion. They could survive a storm, they could be the definition of the soothing calmness beforehand.

Family.

One day these five roses will crumble, too. The way of life. A couple are closer to deteriorating than others, but that's okay. The entire bud will collapse and its leaves will mourn, but perhaps this sudden death is preferable to the slow, deliberate doom of a delicate taffy-tinted flower.

Pink roses are fragile. They follow the analysis of the love-me-not regime, they cause maximum pain for the man. Watching the petal drift towards the soil is an unsettling scene; one that causes an observer to feel horrible for not even raising a finger to resurrect it.

Friendships.

Each and every pink rose will meet its state of withering away into nothing. Whether sooner or later is the real question, but one joshua finds himself constantly pushing behind the rest of his regular thoughts.

Red roses are the most rare. As a matter of fact, he's never had one that's kept for longer than a few months or a couple of years.

Love.

There was Debby. Brendon. Ashley. All great people, mind you, but none to last. They all found their permanent red roses with frail stalks and pleasant aromas.

Altogether, he has eight roses in his bouquet. Eight roses, and he's careful to always cradle them close to his chest.

But this...

This is the story of his ninth rose.

☆

A book full of clichés:)

How're you guys feeling about it so far? Opinions + constructive criticism are both appreciated💞

-Issy