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?