A flower petal slowly forms, on a stem of many thorns. At first shows it's beauty, which starts true and fair. then begins to change, wither and tear. As each petal drops, a new thorn it shows. As the last petal falls all beauty then goes.
if you ever call me annoying, even if it’s just jokingly, the chances of me ever speaking to you again are slim to none because I’ll be so afraid that every little word or sound that comes out of my mouth will aggravate you and make you cringe and hate my existence