She is a Rose

She is a rose.

She is love -

not always understood,

but always felt.

She is delicate,

but that doesn’t make her weak.

It makes her real.

Don’t take her for granted.

Even when her petals fade,

the feeling she leaves lingers.

She grows -

and in growing,

becomes even more beautiful.

She is a rose -

but not a cliché.

Not a copy.

Not a replica.

She may be a rose,

but she is not just any rose.

She is rare.

She is hers alone.

A black rose.

Mysterious.

Uncommon.

And finally -

she loves what she sees.

She exists again.

She always did -

but now,

she knows it.

Amid petals,

there are thorns.

She is no exception.

She sees them now -

in others.

In herself.

The unexpected sting

hurts the most.

And still -

she does not close.

Thorns don’t steal beauty.

They speak it.

Truth wrapped in pain.

Life is beautiful.

Not always pretty.

Rose-colored glasses

can’t blur the sting.

But they hide

the beauty of the bruise.

Because you can bleed -

and still bloom.

She is soft,

but she is strong.

She is a rose.