The Mirage of a Rose
I walked down the lane. They handed me a rose. “What a beautiful thing. Such a lovely fragrance.” The leaves pricked me. “It must be a mistake. They wouldn’t do this. Perhaps they might not know.” Again, they handed me a rose. “Oh… what a nice thing. Oh… they are so kind.” The thorns pricked me. “This is unintentional. I might be overreacting. It is my imagination. Why am I so negative?” Again, they handed me a rose. The thorn pricked me. My hands burned. I looked. My hands had turned black . “Oh… no, my hands! What happened? Why would they do this? It pains so much.” “THEY WERE NOT GIVING ME A ROSE…”