The roses...

Wilting and half-rotted, are prostituting themselves on your table.  The exhausted little sluts that you've made them into, have no choice but to sulk in overuse.

You used to like to look at them.  Your eyes.  Vicious and unrelenting.  But now, the petals are limp, spent limbs refusing to close and spread to your whim. 

You used to like to look at them.  But now they are vulgar.

Whores.  Of course it's their own fault.

You merely picked them, they chose to be weak.  They chose.  Of their own volition.

Vulgar!