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We Are Roses | A Tale

We are roses. Beautiful and colorful and soft to the touch. Don’t be confused though, because we have thorns as well. Naturally we do, to protect ourselves. But little by little, strange and ambitious hands have made sure that we no longer have thorns, so we stand there beautiful as always, but helpless and vulnerable. Those strange hands promised protection and delivered sweet words of comfort. As time went on, we realized those strange hands were not at all what they insisted they were. Instead, they ripped our essence and our sharpness and disposed of us with no tools to protect ourselves from these very same hands. They always came back, you see. They were never satiated, they never had enough. Sometimes they were two, sometimes four, even six or eight. Without these thorns, we couldn’t recoil, we couldn’t scare them away.


Every full moon we regained a little bit of that strength, but then those claws come back, always. The seasons went on and by winter we were cold, fragile, and dry. We prayed and we begged and soon enough our own tears served as water to feed ourselves. We grew resentful of each other and we blamed one another for this outcome. We turned bitter and remained in the dark to avoid being seen, touched, or even tasted.



In case you haven’t caught on, which is completely fine, this is the story of womanhood. Women are these roses.


One day, something shifted. After all, this planet is called Mother Earth for a reason. This was meant to happen at one point. Resentful women raised tender children, girls who were obedient and had no thorns even when they were born, and boys who had emotions but couldn’t really express them so they used their hands to explore the world. They grew to inherit everything their parents had lived, but with a catch. They never felt good in this reality. They knew something was off and they stumbled and fell and hit each other and even hated each other and even themselves. When they became adults, they understood they had been played. They had been groomed and polished and used and abused and now they had a long history of awkward and uncomfortable decisions that had been made for them. And now they had to clean up a whole mess, a whole world of torment and confusion.


And that, ladies and gentlemen, is today’s world. It is chaotic and beautiful and raw and ever-evolving, but we have been left to clean a mess we didn’t really make. The ridiculous war between men and women is very much ongoing and this bloody battlefield has been showered with dried up rose petals and empty stems that are trademarked as “men’s property”. Some men have started to tend to these rosebushes, have watered them, have trimmed them delicately. Others, however have not. Others keep touching without being asked, they keep pulling and tearing, they keep speaking poison, making us wither, they keep drinking our water, stomping our soil.


Unfortunately for them, we have evolved to grow a pair of balls. Call them ovaries, call them balls, call it a dick for all I care, but we are still here, growing back our thorns and replacing the petals that have been torn. We are learning to support each other and love each other and cherish one another. We are slowly going back to those coven times when we knew exactly what to do with our thorns, when we used the moon light as bath water and we danced in the forest with the sound of leaves and werewolf howls. We are in this phase of rebirth, after so much physical neglect, we are getting back in touch with ourselves and our magic. Mother Earth is claiming her territory back and she won’t give up until it is restored. Lucky us, beautiful rose bushes are a key part of the flora on this planet.



Roses grow together, not in a herd because we are not cattle, but in a beautiful sorority arrangement of different colors, lengths, textures, and shapes. We all grow together though, and we share the rich soil of our past below, the fresh water of our future above, and together we tend each other. More and more men are catching on to the beautiful activity of tending to these roses, but they are to blame for us not needing them anymore. We have outgrown this bond. We do save a special spot for those who know how to handle our delicate petals and our sharp thorns. They are not many for now, but we are hopeful that they teach each other how to expand like that, we are done educating ourselves. It’s your turn.


And for the generations to come, just know there’s plenty of noise. But this noise is just that, empty loudness that we have learned to cancel out and, instead, we choose to hear the wild tune of the wind and the rain and the thunder. We have made our own playlist of life and we feed it every day with new sounds and exciting tunes of joy. You don’t have to live by someone else’s rules or their mistakes. Not again, not like we did. So go to sleep, my child, for these sweet lullabies are already playing for you and your brothers and sisters. Just remember, we are roses. Beautiful and colorful, and soft yet sharp to the touch.

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