The Secret of the Flower Vendor

There’s a girl that sells flowers on the street
At the corner of 3rd and Liberty Drive.
Last week a man walked up to her,
Singing songs of a never ending love,
New dresses of satin and lace to make up
For the moth eaten cloth barely clinging to her waist.
Her eyes, which were always bright and alive
No matter that her blood was freezing in the cold 
Winter air, seemed to light up with an otherworldly glow.
She let him escort her to her car, let him open the door, 
She let his eyes race down her thin body, devouring every inch of soft skin.

There used to be a girl that sold flowers on the street
At the corner of 3rd and Liberty Drive.
Now there is but a shell of a woman, 
A withered rose in each shaking hand,
Pricking her fingers and drawing blood.
Her moth eaten cloth barely clings to her waist.
Her eyes, hollow and black like the cold winter
Making her bones shiver and shake, 
Show the pain of each and every intake of breath.
She had let his hands bruise her skin, imprinting on her very soul
She had let him tell her lies, pull down every wall, diminish her to nothing.

--

If you ask her, she’ll deny it. 
No, she has never seen that man. 
She didn’t watch him devour her with his gaze.
She didn’t let him tear her apart inside, hollow her out inside.
She didn't believe any of his beautiful lies.
She doesn’t have a secret.
But if you ask her about the roses.
She would tell you how the thorns lied to her with their beauty.
She would tell you how their beauty lied about endless love.
She would tell you how they bled her dry.
She would tell you...

The roses have many secrets