The Black Rose
kryssi wyckoff martin

Silver rings on my fingers so i donít have to come into contact with other human beings.

Mohawk on my head guaranteeing no one will speak to me, only stare.

Heavy eye makeup, all keep people at bay, people stay away if they think youíre weird

"Ooh, itís a tropical fish".

But somehow, he understood. Somehow he thought he understood

I can see it in his eyes.

He might.

He might

"Bring me a single black rose," I smile.

Knowing there are no black roses, he will never come.

But the roar of his motorcycle as he pulls into the suburban driveway,

has dads watering lawns crane their heads to see,

The bike roars between his legs

Nothing can be heard above the din

He grins.

Black leather absorbing sun the sunglasses reflect.

Black boots firmly on the pavement.

He holds up a single red rose,

And as i watch

The grin twitches

In his right hand the red rose

A shot of color against his leather and roar

In his left

A can of black spray paint.

Reigning in the urge to giggle, the giddy bubble i feel somewhere between my stomach and heart

My face gives away nothing.

Blankly, he stares back and holds the can up so that i can see.

With a twitch of a grin

The trigger is pulled

And red turns to black.

How can it be?

He really is the one for me.

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Rose by Tasty Dead