Reposing roses with spinous stems floated around listlessly. A girl lay still among them in a warm pool of blood, Deep and red like the wilted petals. Taking after the once beautiful flower, She too wilted away. Floating in the blood bath her wrists open And poured out memories she dared not live with any longer. Like splices on a reel, Remnants of her past came to life On the white tile wall. Her eyes, red and narrow, Saw her body slumped in a corner, Too weak to block blows of anger, Too tired to question why any longer. She saw her privacy, now nonexistent, violated, Her innocent youth stolen By prodding hands, And a prepubescent eagerness. Her body ached with chagrin As the next scene showed pieces of her heart Poured down a drain like flat soda, Because nobody wants that at all. She remembered acting; Her double life leading everyone to believe nothing was ever wrong. How wrong she was. Relentless memories continued surfacing. She saw herself trying to forget How wanting love so badly Caused her to feel even more alone than ever before, Even after her stomach became flat again. She saw her mother, The woman she wanted to remember and forget, Her love shown too late, The pain lasting forever. Every damaging episode of her short melodramatic life flashed before her eyes. She sunk lower in the bath, Wanting it all to stop, The memories to disappear, Her life to end. But the blood baths' cognizant hologram served its purpose well: She can remember the past but she can't live it. Presently, she recovered from the almost suicidal comatose. All the hurt, the pain, the psychosis, can be left in the past. And she remembered one pivotal token: She hates the sight of blood.
