The first one came almost instantaneously. My eyes had wandered, landing on the homely feel it radiated. As I carefully laced my fingers around its small frame, I barely noticed the blood stemming from my own finger. Lifting my hand, a small cut had pierced my index finger, warmth slowly seeping down to my wrist.
The vase was unphased.
It was miraculous now that I think back on it.
As I walked home with it, more tiny scratches appeared on my hands and arms, tiny invisible needles rebelling against my efforts. Placing it on the kitchen table, I had begun to feel immense guilt over the small character, a tear forming at the edge of my vision.
That's how the rose came to be.
YOU ARE READING
Colors Behind the Glass ✓
Poetry[COMPLETED] Lonnie has been through several life-changing events. The most impactful is the death of their abuelita and the loss of someone close to them as they came out as non-binary. They have struggled with coming to terms with these two facts...
