As a little girl I loved white roses.
I liked that they were not red, or pink, but still smelled just as pretty. Each time I found one, I’d pluck the petals one by one, being careful not to tear them in the process. For some reason it was terribly important for me not to tarnish them, break them, ruin them in any way. I was a very clumsy child, but with the petals I was always very careful.
Once my small white heap was complete, I’d pick each petal and gently rub the soft white flesh with my thumb and fore finger, letting the delicate aroma sink into my fingerprints, into my bloodstream. I was sure one day it would be enough, one day I too would smell like a rose; a white rose, flawless and not common.
I’ve grown up now; I know better. When I see a white rose, I ball my fists and pull away from the vicious, spewing thorns.