Bride of the Bitter Root

This poem is a Gothic lament told through the voice of a bride who becomes both victim and vengeance in the garden that was meant to celebrate her.

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I was the garden once—

petaled and perfumed,

stitched into silk and vow,

crowned in dew,

offered like fruit to hands that never touched gently,

though they said they would,

though they said the vine would climb only me.

I laid in the soil like a promise

and the roots curled sweet around my spine

as if they knew the shape of me

before I knew myself,

as if they’d been waiting with breathless envy

for the day I’d wear white and smile like mercy.

But gardens rot from the inside

when too many mouths have whispered to the petals,

when the roses grow eyes,

and the vines learn to strangle

not from cruelty,

but because no one ever taught them

how to stop wanting what does not bloom for them.

And oh, how they wanted me.

Not the dress,

not the veil,

but the ache beneath my blush,

the terrible sweetness of a bride who knows

she is loved only as long as she lies still.

So I sank.

Let the soil take the lace,

let the worms braid my hair with vine and thorn,

let the dew pool in the hollow of my back

where once he swore he’d rest his hand forever.

I am still beautiful.

Even in the dark.

Especially in the dark.

And if the garden mourns me,

it is only out of guilt

for how eagerly it helped me bloom

into something

even the roses couldn’t forgive.