This is more of a way to keep my inspiration for writing in check. And no, there is no specific or set genre (but they'll most likely be angsty-pangsty 'cause I'm a sadistic little carrot who can't get enough of it). Enjoy! Or don't... It's really up to you.

Summary: Underneath it all lay an unfathomable amount of darkness with only pretty, pretty petals and colours to conceal it. she wasn't safe to touch. - may&drew angst

Delineate

Falling seemed to be what she was best at.

Not in love, of course, however ironic the situation deemed itself.

They called her a rose. Beautiful. Vibrant. Radiant. But it makes more sense in her head. May doesn't see the aesthetic vision that others do.

Because really, she is sharp and dangerous and damaged and they just can't see the pain behind her eyes. It is a vortex of despair, one that May Maple plunged into a long time ago. One that she continues to spiral further down with every passing moment.

The saying, 'every rose has its thorns', has never been more accurate, she believes.

For truly, she is everything and nothing at all. Colours have many meanings, she has been told, and none of them quite match up to represent what she was. Perhaps she was simply destined to be different. But she doesn't know how to classify, how to associate or assign a specific colour to her personality.

So, instead of matching herself with any one colour, she matches herself with roses instead. One for each person she knows.

Dark pink, white, yellow, lavender, light pink, peach, dark purple, orange... They were all a part of her.

Even Max, who she would hold a white flower to.

They shared blood and sweat and tears, but no matter how much they bickered May would nevernever replace him for the world. She had many brothers, yes, but he was the only one that truly had any claim to the title. Max was pure and innocent and everything she had left far behind her a long time ago.

To May, though, there was only one colour that really mattered. The one rose that symbolised the most.

Blue. How coincidental, she thought, that his name even rhymed with it.

Drew.

Unattainable. Extraordinary (because really, he was). Often seen as an enigmatic mystery, complexity. A riddle unable to be solved. Impossible to come by naturally, a blue rose represents all that one wants and yet can never quite grasp.

He has always been all of that and so much more in her - now clouded, lifeless - eyes.

But, good qualities aside, if there was a rose for everything negative and bitter in this world then it also belonged to Drew Hayden. She would know. The history the two shared held so much depth, held that much more meaning, conveyed all of her (and his) very being. She loved them all, but he was the one who made the everlasting impact.

May supposed there was always black, but that analogised her more than it did him.

Not that any of it mattered anymore. He didn't love her. She didn't love him.

Shedidn'tshedidn'tshedidn't.

At one point in time, maybe. He had been something so much more. They had been something so much more.

Somuchfuckingmore.

But that was then and this is now, and pretty flowers and colours of the rainbow weren't going to change that.

Theywouldn'ttheywouldn'ttheywouldn't.

That left red.

Red roses held no meaning anymore. In her eyes, they may as well have been black.

When it came down to it, May supposed she was an oxymoron of sorts.

The colour red is often associated with passion, igniting with immense energy at the peak of emotions that fuel adrenaline and all its elements. It is only fitting that a red rose is considered to be a direct representation of love. But, May's passion is not a pragmatic one, and this is something she accepted years ago.

The passion she leaks is not the positive kind, either. No. Not anymore. Now, the blinding energy May Maple radiates is one of agony, screaming and howling until her throat aches and she sinks to the ground because she simply cannot stand to carry on any longer.

Because, pushing the optimistic, carefree, lovable girl that the world sees aside, May Maple is nothing more than an illusion of the girl she used to be. Her coruscating exterior of red, a colour she had been so fond of in her innocent, oblivious youth, had become tainted. A mess of staining blood and splotches of crimson and burgundy and carmine that she just cannot distinguish what is what anymore. Who is she, really?

Her thorns are no longer mere stubs with the slight chance of pricking a finger if not handled delicately, no.

They are overgrown, twisting and tangled within each other until the rose is no longer safe, no longer visible. But never once do they touch it. So much like her, so much like him. So much like them.

She is the delicate, frail flower that flows gently in the breeze, while he bears the thorns that snake and spiral around her; right there but constantly out of reach.

It's alwaysalways just enough to hurt but not to break. Words were painful, she had come to realize. Though she'd much rather those than for him touch her. She feared that if he was to give her even the slightest brush with the tip of his fingers that she would shatter.

He would never abuse her, no. The pain he inflicts isn't physical. It is emotional, and he knows it. And he is good.

Drew Hayden has always been good at everything and anything. This was no exception, despite the fact that she was the most important, the only thing he couldn't handle losing.

Those mocking spikes were always there, threatening but never once tearing her perfectly imperfect petals. She wasn't sure whether she really wants them (him) to keep away. She supposed she was a masochist that way, too.

All the same, May never allows herself to get too near. Close enough to feel the pain, far enough to remain safe. Because she lets him be there but refuses him the right to sting.

It was at least a small victory on her part. To May, it was only fair. He seemed to win all of the other games they play.

It didn't make much sense, in hindsight.

Because if she was to fall she would simply crumble, and May Maple is not sure if she would be able to pick herself up after that. She knows that she certainly wouldn't have the strength to piece herself together again. Even so, she hasn't been whole for a long, long time.

Drew knows more than anyone that she won't be able to. He knows that strength is no longer part of her. After all, he was the one who allowed her to stumble over the edge in the first place.

Despite contrary belief, May was not foreign in regards to the concept of love.

At first, they were unbreakable. Burning and blazing with unmeasurable intensity and alight with something she could never quite pinpoint.

Things were different now.

They became tainted, stained like the countless letters for him now spotted with her tears. None were ever sent. She could never bring herself to. Their love blossomed and bloomed as vibrant as the roses he carelessly tossed at her, but it didn't last. No one thing in this world ever does.

Fate was cruel and love is as harsh as it was beautiful. Together, unpredictable. Their bond wavered and frayed and finally snapped. May and Drew only wilted, just as all of those precious flowers eventually did, too.

Black roses were all red in the beginning, anyway.

She won't deny that she still loves him, though. She doesn't think that will ever change. It was odd that so many compared her to something so pure. Pure yet deadly, she had discovered the hard way.

But if she is a rose, then it is he who stains her petals the colour of the night sky and blurs the line between love and insanity.