They are the only ones who love me. I am the only one who hates them. Twelve dying roses with sagging stems and pale petals. Twelve who are imposters in my home. Twelve weak apologies for one heinous crime. From the kitchen, I can see them, they taunt me, my friends think I’m crazy, but they don’t understand.

Their strength is in the memories they carry. They send savage thorns into my already bleeding heart. They wilt and droop and die even more everyday, and with their death they take my remaining life. This is how they control me.

Let one forget its reason for being, they’d all follow in pursuit, each with all their petals gone and stems broken off in the vase. Think, think, think, they say when I want to throw them out. They continue to live.

When I am too distraught and too confused to keep thinking, when I am one dead petal among so many,  I look to my roses for hope that they can comfort me. But when there is nothing left for me to think about or memories to grieve, when I’ve finally made up my mind. Twelve who took over me. Twelve whose life is surely gone. Twelve dead roses who find themselves in the trash.