rosebud

You were awfully quick with

the shears. I saw her, you know,

as I hovered there.

Perfectly pink, perfectly formed.

Perfectly flawed. A miracle,

really. Remember you said

so, you said in a

whisper, "Miracle".

Now.

Look what you've done.

Her sunken eyes tell me the

story I need to know. Perfect

petals dry in the trash. Tears

or blood drain unnoticed 

collecting in your jar of shame.

Her smile resembles the gory

wound you left. Open. Festering.

Hidden. Try as she might joy

escapes her. I wish I could hold

her but I know, you're watching.

You prune with impudence. 

She lies quietly trembling

as  I cower overhead.