Meet Me in the Woods

dead roses.

there is a vase
of dead roses
on my nightstand.

the cranberry red,
plucked five years ago
from the funeral of my aunt and uncle.
i sobbed in the pews
and as i stood in the front of their urn
the cranberry
was a sorrowful kind of a beautiful.
only one petal has fallen,
but they still remain
in the pictures
i keep underneath my books
and in the cranberry red
plucked five years ago.

the wine-stained red, with the bent stem
two years ago
in the parking lot of a fast food place.
my best friend and i
had walked to the gas station after school
sat on the curb
and watched the sun saunter
toward the horizon.
her and i
don't talk much anymore
but only two petals have fallen
and she's still there
in the wine-stained red
two years ago.

the blood burgundy, stout and stoic
a friend gave it to me
several months ago
after he performed in the theatre.
he couldn't bring a flower home
because his mother would think
he was gay.
him and i don't see
much of each other anymore
but the blood burgundy
has yet to shed
a single petal.
and he's still there
in the blood burgundy
several months ago.

but then,
you.

but then,
the virginity pink rose
that you gave to me,
chaste and pure so unlike
what you did to me.

my virtue remains
only in physicality.

my mind and soul
were violated as you
plucked those petals
from my skeleton.

i was the sacred river
pure and beautiful and life-giving
and you were the corrupting tar
polluting my clear body.
you made me
used
disgusting
polluted.

i was eden
gentle and holy and peaceful
and you were the snake
whispering of forbidden fruits
and sin.

i was a lioness
and you the trophy hunter
your breath smelling of tobacco
and power lust
when you shed my blood.

look what you have done to me.

the virginity pink rose
has spilt onto itself
and it's only been a year.
the petals have shed
the beauty is gone
just as the memory of pain
the love i had for you
never was
and is no longer.

i find solace in the river.
i prefer daises.
and i'm sorry we ever met.