Bouquet

She stands at the alter, a white dress
blooming around her and a white veil
that softly smothers her with its ice
cold, pristine virginity. Church bells.

Ahh. Sigh, and the bouquet will flutter,
her breath is as gentle as petals
or perfume; the scent from the roses
clutched to her breast is all she can smell.

A red rose is staining her dress. Love,
or blood. A rose beats in her chest
now that her heart is perfectly poised,
centrestage, in a bridal bouquet.

A pink flush, a beautiful blush of
sugar sweet scent. Drowning in nectar,
the pink roses blessed by divine lips
not to scream as teeth rip them apart.

The last rose is white like her dress and
her veil and her skin and the bedsheets
that wait for the wedding night, mocking,
cajoling, she can hear them from here.

Suddenly, violently, her fingers,
with no trace of a ring, clutch rip tear
at the white rose, clawing away her
innocence. Stained glass petals shatter.

The guests have been blackened by mourning.
They stare right through her. Something is wrong.
Her wedding looks like a funeral,
and the white rose will never be red.