A wilting rose

I am a wilting rose. 

One with harsh thorns and dark, soft to the touch petals.

Not one with a hard crunch, but one with a weak stem and darkened petals.

Not one with flourishing, admirable petals and a frim ambitious stem. But one with rage filled thorns

I am a depressing rose.

One that once had those radiant, beautiful petals but was cut short by cold unforgiving metal.

Yet I am one that hasn't succumbed to the cold harsh crunch of death at this time.

This is the fact that I am wilting, decaying, and dying.

Once you might have taken interest in me sometime before, but now are looking to replace.

I am the rose you found this holiday.

The rose you handpick upon millions, maybe even thousands of others and thought was perfect.

So, you plucked me.

Used me.

Admired me.

Loved me.

Made me feel wanted.

Until you found I am useless without the roots I was grown with.

Without the home I was sheltered and loved.

Useless without your undivided attention.

Without your undivided gaze.

So, now you look at me as a chore to soon throw away.

Leaving me alone and undesired.

I am a wilting rose, one that you fantasized about having but now realize is not what you wanted.

I am a rose one that you are bound to throw away.