Preserving

My fingers pluck apart a rose, it is nearly dead. I'm pulling it apart to press the petals, to preserve what life is left. But as I get closer to the heart of the flower, the petals become more crimson, more velvety, more beautiful, more alive and more reproachful in their stare. I feel like I ruthlessly pulled apart a small child. The tiny exposed seeds at the flowers heart seem to cringe, naked. The wellspring of life will no longer bloom. The sweet scent bleeds into the air, like the silent reproach of the dead and the scent of blood on the battlefield. Something so beautiful, I was trying to preserve, but it's dying breath leaves me feeling like a murderer. Sometimes I feel my help is really no help at all.