She sits at the spinning wheel, hopelessly hollow,
A smile grafted onto her skin.
Countless white roses dominate her window frame-
When was the last time she let loose a real grin?
Her fingertips caress the pale, silky petals,
And she grasps one by the stem.
A thorn claws her finger to draw a single drop of blood,
Which traces the rose petal in deep red mayhem.
She inhales sharply- not in pain but in pleasure,
And a smile reaches up to her ears.
The pain had filled her hollow heart,
A heart filled by only isolation for years.
The shock fades away, replaced by...nothing.
She cries in hopeless desperation.
But when she pricks her fingers with white roses once more,
The room fills with sighs of elation.
Drops of blood shower pale roses,
Drops of pain, break her apart.
She loves how the pain mercilessly destroys her;
Makes her feel past the mask, makes her feel in her heart.
Again and again and again and again,
Day after day of harm.
Until she runs out of places on fingers to prick,
So now rubies drip from her arms.
On her 16th, a little past midnight,
Three women come in singing happy birthday.
They find only a beauty sleeping at the spindle,
Surrounded by dozens of flower bouquets.
She looks so perfect covered with vivid red roses,
They close the door and whisper good night.
They make it downstairs before one realizes:
The only roses they ever planted were white.