What if I told you

That the enchantments were an illusion?

That the rose had long since withered,

Surrendered its embarrassed blush for volcanic ash,

At my very touch.

If I confessed

That you should be grateful for my grotesque visage

Because it guards you

From looking too deep into my heart,

Twisted like a rose bush without its fragrance,

Would you still weep for me

As I bled onto the marble floor

From a wound as cavernous as my inhumanity?