Behind the beautiful rose bush is a mat of tangled thorns no one loves or wants. Because the thorns hurt. And the blood from pricked fingers stain the flowers, the oh so beautiful flowers. So everyone cuts the thorns off. But there are too many thorns. And so everyone forgets the thorns are even there.

Or that's how I wish things were. I'm cursed to prick my fingers until there's no skin left to tarnish. Like the curse of the spinning wheel. I'll fall into a deep deep slumber. But there will be no prince to kiss me awake. And I'll sleep peacefully forever.

With no happy ending.

Oh how beautiful the roses are indeed. But the roses comes with thorns that no one loves. Yet almost everyone bears the thorns deeply embedded in their hands. They wrap their hands with bandages. And they bear their pain and their love together.

But I don't think I can do the same. I want to sleep and sleep. With my bandaged hands without thorns. But I'll have no prince to kiss me awake.

It would be best if I learned to bear the thorns. Yet that immortal, spoiled child inside still wants the best of both worlds.

For now I'll keep pricking my hands until I have no more skin to tarnish. Before choosing to bear the thorns or to sleep forever.