delilahb

I have fresh roses in my room. I picked them last night from the garden in the front of my house. They smell of frozen nights with hints of sunny days. The petals are soft like silk scarves wrapped around my neck and are colored by five-year-olds with their teacher's markers.

I keep them in my bathroom to make me appreciate the wonderment of color. I flip them over, twirl them and picture full skirts of dancers wrapping around legs.

Upside down, I want to scream femininity, wear my hair in curls and pucker red lips.

Upside down, the roses flare out, showing off their lace trimmed edges.