The Murder of a Rose

Trigger Warning: This poem contains a gruesome onscreen murder of a rose and allusions to hitting a rabbit with a hammer. Rest assured, no roses or rabbits were harmed in the making of this poem—I'm not a serial killer! This is purely a work of fiction exploring the theme of corruption.

In twilight’s grip, the garden breathes,
The lady in the black leans close, whispers,
“Behold this rose—
I’m going to pull apart its petals,
One by one.”
I halted her fingers, heart racing.
“Why this madness?” I dared to ask.
“Beauty will always be killed.
It’s the law of the night,” she replied,
“Like a soft, sweet rabbit,
You’d want to kiss it with a hammer.
To cherish the lovely, you must trample it down.”
Her laughter flickered like fireflies.
“What’s gained from destruction?” I questioned,
“Why break what could bloom?”
“Love is to shatter, to dance in despair,
To cradle the fragile, then leave it bare.”
But she drifted away,
As if debate were futile.
Relieved, I watched the rose remain unscathed,
In the early light of morning,
Thriving, pure, bright—
Each day, a silent testament.
Yet, shadows crept in,
Why can’t I sway free?
Why does sunlight crown the rose with rainbows
While casting only shadows upon me?
So, in the dead of night,
When the moon was cloaked in clouds,
I slipped through the garden,
I plucked the rose—
My hands bled on her thorns,
Red drops mingling with earth.
I threw it down,
And began to stomp…
Thud
Squish
Groan

Petals crushed beneath my fury,
Blending blood, tears, and dirt.
When the clouds parted,
Moonlight revealed the crime—
A horror to behold.

I kneeled in the dirt,
And my fingers tried to scratch out the petals

My nails broke,
Only dirt, blood and grime remained
Cold against my hot skin.

I looked towards the house, the window—
My vision blurred, but I saw

The lady in the black veil, watching me,
A crooked smile twisting her lips.
The chill breeze whispered in her voice,
“See how the pure is tainted;
It is the way of the night.”