The Essence Of Who I Am

It’s the moment you prick your finger on the rose, that second you wake up to see it was too late.

That it’s beauty entrapped you. And there was no healing the wound.. No rewinding the moment.

Now you have a choice. You could drag your hand back out of the brambles or grab onto the rose thorns harder..

And for some reason holding on seemed easier than letting go.

M.A.P

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