roses

You handed me what you claimed were roses, I believed you. I kept them on my desk in full view, eager to see them every morning once I woke. I thought somedays they looked strange, but you assured me they were roses, and I believed you.

I handed you roses as well, but you kept them hidden away from the sunlight. You called me a liar when they always began to wilt the day after I gave you them. I never understood that. Mine lived for days, yours lasted for hours.

I realized you hadn't been taking care of them, so I stopped supplying the roses. I realized flowers you gave me weren't roses. I realized you lied. I realized they were gardenias and all you had done was pulled off their petals.