To See a Dream

A rose that looks like sunshine, Bright, but soft, butter yellow, with an edgy crimson outline, floated in a vase alongside soft splatterings of Baby's Breath. 'Twas a gift. It lived on the dresser; my dresser in front of my bed. Every morning, when the sun began to shine through my window, the rose was the first thing I saw. It had no thorns, it was perfect; Perfection in a single flower: I took a picture. To capture the moment, to capture the beauty before it began to wilt, before it lost its perfection. I would dream, imagine that I would become an aspired singer, that I could dance, that I could be in the "In" society. I would dream the impossible, that I could be the first to count all the stars, that I would sit on the porch with my love and enjoy morning hot chocolate, that I could see the future God intended. My reflections bloomed, like my rose. They grew into a young woman of no horror in her life, sheltered and nurtured under the love of parents and a close friend. I woke up to my animal's playing and a resounding crash. My shattered vase. My gorgeous rose, Baby's Breath and water all over the floor and under the dresser. I cut my feet. I cut my hands. My rose had a tiny thorn under the wilted petals. For you see, I never saw the withered, ugly flower with a covered thorn. I saw what I wanted to see; A soft, but brilliant, yellow rose with edgy crimson outlines. My dreams blended into the blood on my feet. Reflections became none exsistant when I felt the pain of glass in my hands; I saw my sheltered life sink into the puddle of water, slowly drifting under my bed. With tears, I cleaned. I scrubbed and threw away the pieces. I bandaged the wounds and washed my eyes and cheeks. Without aid, I moved on. Time told me of scars on my feet and hands. All I can do is remember and glance at my framed, wilted rose; the brittle petals cracked, the stem a deep brown, the thorns prominent and sharp. I saw what I wanted to see.