An existence meant to serve others, grown only to be picked and forgotten. Man labels its vibrant red as the color of passion, of romance, of charm and love. Yet this rose was ripped from the land that nourished it, taken from the light that grew it.

The rose is dead.

How “ugly”the rose is now that its petals are dry, now that it’s brittle leaves have fallen off.

Is this the symbol of beauty? Is this the symbol of passion, is this our symbol of eternal love? The act of picking a rose at its core is violence.

No wonder they grow thorns, If you were a rose, wouldn’t you grow thorns too?