the only thing I ever killed was an extension of myself

when I was a small child my parents gave both me and my sister a rose, just like our middle names. her's was baby pink with just unfurling petals, new and blushing and sweet. mine was a harsh yellow burning deep into great fire-orange, obtrusive and strange. they buried hers for her, she was too young to do it herself of course, somewhere bright and sunny right beside the treehouse.

I buried my own, deep and dark away like a secret, wishing silently that my small act of protection would be enough to save it from my own fate. I would visit it every day as it wilted and so did I, my sister's bloomed, of course, it was watered by my parents after all... sometimes I think about that crisp august night, walking down deep into the bushes to where my child lay, now dead, it's head fallen softly to the ground with only thorns and dried petals left as testament to it's trying. I knew it was me, just not here and not yet, I could feel it in every bruise and the coldness wrapping around my bones even then. 

I still think about it, I hated roses after that, hated myself for what I did to mine... wishing silently for a second chance, but I never got one, of course not, she was the second chance anyway. but I'm not bitter, nor do I resent anything anyone, I have long grown accustom to my own thorns.

it was about seven years later at the age of twelve I realised my own rose had died, as the world around me stayed so bright and new and yet all I could feel was cold and sharp. slinking away back into the dark from which I was born, seeking out all those dangers that reminded me of home... screaming up at a dead sky cursing everything I could for the punishment of being born in the world I was. violent and angry I grew twisted and spiteful, my own spikes digging eventually into my own flesh until the life I'd carved for myself turned into nothing more than a new and perfect prison.

I'm not twelve anymore, flowers bloom again, I may never have that show stopping blush of my sister nor the luck of any other rose but despite all the torment I lived, thorns and warts and sick and all I still grow and breathe and thrive and exist. some night I still look up and sob at my smallness despite never getting the chance to be at all but the rose was never really all thorns and neither am I. I looked up my old house, warm and full with new bodies and lives I will never know, they took down the treehouse and sold my swing and yet most of all a rose bush grows out the back of the garden, twisted and strong near the bushes where I died bearing nothing more than bright yellow flowers.