Two girls stepped through a doorway, no signs, no sound, Just four bare walls and two beds on the ground. One was wrapped in roses, deep red and wide, The kind that looked warm, like a breath you could hide inside. The other—cold, built of knives end to end, Not shining, but dull, like pain that doesn’t pretend. No voice told them where to go, No rule, no right, just choose and lay low. They stood still— Then the silence snapped. One girl shoved, And the other girl cracked. She hit the floor hard, skin ripped and raw, Tried to speak, but tasted her jaw. The one who pushed didn’t even pause— Just smiled like hunger and reached for applause. She ran to the rosebed, threw herself down, Sank into the flowers like she’d won the crown. Her fingers traced petals, her head fell back, And for a second, the world faded to black. The other girl— Still on the ground, still bleeding dirt, Stared at the knives like they’d always been hers to hurt. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t scream. She rose slow, Like waking from a dream. Sat on the blades, her legs torn and bent, Each handle stabbed where her spine was spent. But it held her. It kept her. Even when it hurt, Even when her blood soaked through her shirt. She sat tall. Ugly, broken, real. While across the room, the roses began to reveal— They twitched, Not gently, Not soft. They pulled like rope, And her body was lost. The petals shifted, red turned black, Thorns rising slow, sliding into her back. They weren’t above her. They were beneath. And they pierced her skin Like hunger with teeth. She gasped once— Then the roses closed in. Swallowed her whole, Soft as sin. The girl on the blades did not look away. Just watched the flowers feast and sway. No crying. No saving. Just blood in bloom.