The Perfect Crime Scene

The bouquet was taut in my hand

with a beautiful paper protecting it.
Or perhaps,

protecting my hands.

It was funny!

Why would my hands need protection now?

After all that I had been through!

I didn’t ask for it.

I didn’t want it. ‘You are married.

I am not the one you should give these to.’ Were words of little value.

I had shut the doors to my past

And he was banging them again now.

After having walked out through them

Without even a backward glance,

Deaf to my pleadings,

Blind to my tears.

What would have once given me immense joy,

was giving me so much pain now.

It was Valentine’s day.

And I was holding a bouquet of roses,

Red roses.

From the wrong person

From a married man.

I didn’t ask for it.

I didn’t want it. ‘Why?’ I had been through that.

A million times already.

It’s better not to go down that road.

It’s a cursed road.

I just keep going around in loops,

End up getting lost,

And cry.

What I know for sure is this.

I don’t want to ruin a life.

I don’t want to ruin a marriage.

I’d never ask for that

I’d never want that.

So I gradually unwrapped the bouquet.

Freed it of all the bondage,

Let the roses bare the thorns

And held onto them with both my hands

As my blood began to emerge

From between my fingers,

Forming a drop, two, three

And dripping onto the floor.

The pain made me forget the wound within

And I watched the roses turn redder.

I wanted that.

I moved to the petals.

Pulled them out one at a time.

And turned the bouquet into a graveyard.

Oh it was beautiful!

Burgundy blood drops on the floor,

Beginning to dry,

Fresh, soft petals lay scattered
Amidst green stems smeared with blood.

It was a perfect crime scene.

I stepped on the thorns

And on my blood,

And walked out the door,

Much like he had left me.

Not that I wanted to.

I had no choice.

Those flowers weren’t mine to keep

Not anymore.

This post is a part of BlogchatterA2Z and AprilA2Z challenge

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