Roses On The Table

If (our) love was a garden,
and I was your rose,
why did you unearth me,
put me in a pot,
and set me on y(our) dining room table as a centrepiece:

In a room without sunlight,
Knowing I would wilt.

While I was kept as y(our) centrepiece,
what was growing in y(our) garden?
How could you use me, wilted petals and all,
to nurture the budding love in y(our) backyard?

Did my spine bend too easily?
Were my petals not as bright as hers?
Did I take up too much of y(our) attention?
When the sun beat down on you as you weeded y(our) garden, did you
feel like I was no longer worth the trouble?

Tell me:
Did you dislike that I made you wait for me to bloom?
Or did she give you all that I never could?
I would have given you everything, down to my last seed,

but you put me on y(our) dining table as a centrepiece:

In a room without sunlight,
Knowing I would wilt.