Those eight roses were me and the box was clearly you.
You see? You were all over me, covering me, holding me, ‘protecting’ me from the big bad world.
You got so fixated on the idea that I’d end up hurt or ruined that you kept me inside your box.
And you forgot to take the lid off too…
The freshness of the roses is long gone, their beauty too, their purpose is no more in display for we changed the state in which they should be held.
I was too afraid to show them to the world because they were a reminder of what we had and lost. Now I’m too afraid to touch them. Hell, I can’t even look at them, can’t clean the box no more.
This is exactly what our last month looked like.
You taking the lid off and being too afraid to look me in the eyes. Too afraid to accept the thing I had become. You couldn’t bring out the beauty anymore.
So, we parted ways. You got your box back and took off the sick roses. I got my air and bloomed once more with no box to hold me this time.