Happier In Hell

Prologue

    The death of a rose was a quiet one. Though her thorns were sharp and prick, her life ended with but a snip. Soft and nimble but as bitter, as the taste of blood pricked on a finger. The only thing to bring her down was the blade around her thorn crown. What was once here, eaten away, the rose thorn doesn't play.

     With her kills covering her, the red blood stained on her shirt, the rose wept with guilt and yearned, for something that long left her.

     So deep, deep she fell, into the torturous place, we call hell; to burn away her sanity, all torn away by a man you'll never meet again at least.

     Why I choose to tell this tale, is but because she wasn't well, her mind was lost and heart grown pale, nothing about this story ends well.

     But if you like a riddle to try and fiddle with, listen to this little girl whose story was called a myth. She's not here, as you might have gathered, but if we tell her story she must be flattered- by kind words she'd never received, as her family was not a nice one to the knees.

     I'll stop talking now and I'll give you a chance, my words are a painful dance. You shouldn't expect any easy wordplay, but, I hope you have a nice day anyway.