"I love you," he said, a rose in his hand as red as the dress you wore that night.

Blood. The memories were stained with all the blood, sweat and tears that couldn't hold your love together.

The stars were too busy shining to notice the darkness of the sky that began to draw its curtains over their lights. Your eyes could only see the love in his fair skin and beautiful face, but you gave no thought to the glint in his eyes that had burned with an evil fire.

The thorns of his rose remained, ends tainted by the blood of a naïve girl, sitting in a dry vase surrounded by the petals of his fake love that had fallen apart to reveal the truth.

Did you believe the darkness of its red petals that hollered his secrets to you every night he'd taken a piece of you away? Did you listen when it sat blooming by your bedside table trying to tell you to leave him behind?

No, you never listened.

Now it sits in its dry vase, petals shed and stem dry, thorns tainted and the skin of false beauty peeled away by the last kiss he gave you before he stole the last shred of your heart that kept the colour in your cheeks and the blood flowing through your veins.

And like the finish of a grand performance, he drew the curtains to put out the remnants of your love's existence.

end