He was sewn into her life like
Fine embroidery on silk,
In he went, sharp needle tip
Into her softness digging,
Then piercing her inside out, emerging
Only to be driven again back in,
He was the rose that was carved
On her pale, plain form;
His red completing her deficiencies,
His fragrance camouflaging her inconsistencies,
A Prince Charming,
Made just for her, she was told,
With sword of steel and armour of gold,
His grip hurt?- "It was supposed to, a little bit!"
His thorns stung?- "Oh surely you can bear it!"
Why was he there?- "Hush, woman!
You aren't supposed to ask that!
The rose is your crown, it is your badge
of honour, of modesty, of shame,
The little holes and their bleeding flames
Are marks of the strength of a woman, you see!
The strength that to only you, nature brings,
To stitch your man on to your fragile skin
To exhibit the flower, hiding the thorns within,
To gracefully mask the bruises, the puckering,
For you need him to fill your shortcomings"
-*without questioning.