As a girl, I made choices that have affected me as a woman. I lost my innocence to a one I did not love; I drifted on an oar less boat down a fermented and distilled river; I squandered, on demeaning tasks, the intelligence that set me apart, and took part in two miracles that have placed upon my shoulders a burden I was not prepared for.
Now, shelved dreams beg to be dusted. But the bed I made, with its rumpled, tousled sheets, seems to stretch on forever. I cannot throw my feet over the edge and stand, my limbs have grown weak from misuse; I've lain on this bed too long, and dusk threatens in the distance—an eternal night, an end to all things, or at least, an end to me.
I long for the rose bed, that answer to my prayers, the accomplishment of my goals and the return of my pride; the angels I was bequeathed deserve nothing less—I cannot wrong them as I was wronged. Life's lessons have taught me well, else were for naught and fool that I am, if I do not learn, should stay where I lay.
But, for the rose bed, I'll do almost anything. I'll twist and turn, scrape and claw, bloody my nails if I must to gain the edge. Stand. Rise. Never fall. Never, never again, fall.
Image: Josée Holland Eclipse, Red Rose, Public Domain Pictures.net
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