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Sanguine Roses



I lay, like a doll, in a bed of roses.

The reddest ones you could find for me,

Some are even dripping,

With the thickness of a bloody thorn

From where they pricked you

As you pulled them carelessly from the vines of a deceit

So palpable it still clings to your hair.

There is dirt under your nails,

Cakes of it,

Caught there while you clawed at the earth

Trying to gather the roots,

To stablise my already dwindling love.

I needed roots, you guessed.

So you brought them to me,

To me in my bed of silky roses.

And planted them so that they would grow.



Everyone claims they have a story to tell,

Words to record.

Not You.

I am your story,

Your one trueness.

So you want me well hidden.

Far from the prying eyes of would be lovers.



But do lovers have eyes?

Yours are black and beady,

Those closest to comparison are of a vulture,

Am I your carrion?

Do I scratch that itch?

I can laugh, and you'll still only be you.



Now I am covered...

Blanketed in all of your gifts

With that finely spun web of yours...

I'm like a fly caught in your silk,

Struggling to break free.

Break away from a bed of roses.

You keep piling them on,

Blooms that swallow everything.

Inky red petals,

Against my pale skin.

And me?

I glow...

As you rape me of my innocence.



7-23-01; revised 12/15/02