V-Day

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I just want to say this poem is not about my current relationship. This is an official disclaimer.

V/Z/Dooms-Day
If the rose be truly red,
then it would
drip
drip
drip
with the blood of the
unfortunate passer by.
Its thorns, tiny lancets,
twist and turn and bleed out
the heart.
It’s never solitary, this.
Where you find one, you find
hundreds,
each equally capable of splitting
your fragile flesh.

If violets truly be blue,
then they are made of ice,
fractured and shattering.
They seep in through the
nose,
for every deep enchantment
brings your heart that much
closer to stopping.

If sugar be sweet,
then your teeth will rot
straight out your head.
Your pearly whites will
gather on the
ground, soaking in the
pure, pitiful sounds of your wailing.

And you.
You.
You wretched, horrible,
rose bed.
I must water you daily,
prune you nightly,
and try to not get stung by your needle.
You are like the violet,
frozen and blue.
You rot my teeth to the gum.

You.
I love you.

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