here is a little story i wrote a while ago. it's not edited very well but i really like it.

17- Roses
On the day that we met, he gave me a rose. It was orange. I thought he gave it to me because orange was my favorite color. It was my mother’s, too, before she died. But how could he have known that? Really, he told me, I gave it to you because orange roses symbolize energy, desire, and excitement. My stomach flipped inside out and upside down when he told me this. He thought I was exciting and desirable. I was beside myself in infatuation. The next week, he took me for a walk through the park, and we sat under a tree. I tapped my fingers against the bark, creating a song to leave with the wind, when he gave me another rose. This time, it was pink. It reminded me of my grandfather, who used to be botanist and grew beautiful pink roses to give to me so that I could wear them in my hair. I’m giving you this rose, he said, because pink roses symbolize admiration, grace, and gladness. He admired me and was glad to be with me. I held the rose close to me as he talked. He told me about his father, who was sick, and how he hates himself. His eyes were glassy, as he pulled his words from the sky and wrapped them in his rain, handing them to me like a gift. But I didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry, I said, my mother was sick too. The rose in my hands cut my finger, and the blood dripped down onto my jeans. He told me more about his life, ignoring the fact that I was hurting too. The more he cried the more I wanted to. I wanted to be there to pick him up when I fell down, and he wanted me to pick him up too. I thought that was love. A week or two after that we were sitting in his living room and I was eating strawberries from the farmer’s market. He was crying again, because his brother was sick now too. I was crying with him, but for a different reason. I’d had a stressful day at work that day, and I had a big presentation the next morning. But instead of getting work done, my anxiety was gnawing on me as I bit into a strawberry instead, the juicy red river flowing from the inside of the fruit and coating my lips. I stayed at his apartment that night, holding him in my arms until he stopped crying and fell asleep. I kissed him on the forehead, and the strawberry juice stained his skin. The next morning he brought me a red rose. I knew at this point that it wasn’t red because of the strawberries we ate the night before. I’m giving you this rose, he said, because red roses symbolize love, beauty, and perfection. He thought I was beautiful and perfect. But most importantly, he said he was in love with me. But it wasn’t love. This whole time I kept picking him up, but when the rose would cut me he never kissed the cut or tried to heal me. So I kept on cutting myself, slowly and painfully, to see if he’d ever give me a bandage. Instead, he never noticed. The next week I was looking at the roses on my dresser. All three had died and the crumbling rose petals were falling to the ground. I looked in the mirror and saw a destroyed copy of the boy that I thought I loved. My face was crumbling and my skin was pale like the light pink leaves of the second rose. My eyes were full of salty tears and I hated myself just as much as he did, but I hated myself because I couldn’t be good enough for him. Why was I comparing my pain to his? So I gathered the dying rose petals and gave them to him. I’m sorry, I said, but you were so broken that you broke me too without knowing it. I know I shouldn’t have blamed him for his pain, but I didn’t know what else to do. If only he could’ve asked me about my mother that first time, and picked me up like I did him. Months passed, and the tiny cuts healed, leaving nothing but a few small scars. I hated flowers, and couldn’t stand walking by the florist every morning because it reminded me of him. And then one day he showed up on my porch. I walked outside and dropped the pen I was holding. His eyes were bright and full of life. He was holding a white rose. I’m giving you this rose, he said, because the first day we met you were wearing your favorite white dress. And because I’m sorry. I needed to love myself before I let you love me. Also, white roses symbolize purity, innocence, and starting anew. Then he bent down and picked up the pen, and me with him.