or when your fingertips bleed.
processing the wedding flowers made me angrier as we worked. plucking the roses of their leaves, popping off the thorns, pruning them of the browning petals.
red rose,
pink rose,
white rose and more.
add in a few hydrangeas,
and there's likely pain in store.
the girl i was working with was quite kind, talking to me for much of the time about music and college.
not even five minutes into the job, my left index finger was pricked by a pink rose's thorn.
"i'd like to bet that i'll draw blood at least once before today is over," i remark.
just a minute later, i glance down to where the thorn jabbed me, and a bead of blood has formed over the puncture point.
i always find it strange to see my own blood, to see what keeps me alive ink out of me.
despite the menial injury, i kept working in hopes for the money my aunt promised me for the job.
YOU ARE READING
Smart Girl
Non-Fictionthoughts from the smart girl. //the journal of wren// //highest rank #2 in non fiction// //all names of real people interacted with here are altered from their original versions for privacy's sake//
