I, the Bride

 I, The Bride 

Encircled in white,

Like a storm,

Lacing down my face,

My arms,

My body,

To my shoes.

Whispering to the ground 

As I step.

One step wrong,

And my foot will tangle

In the net of my skirt.  

But I keep my head up.

Look forward

Through the fog of this vail.

Don't look down.

Don't look back.

Just cling.

And squeeze the thorny stems 

Of these roses,

Plunging into my sweating palms.

The blood seeps between my fingers,

And I glance down just enough 

Past my flushed cheeks 

And shaking hands,

To see the drops appearing 

On my snow white skirt.

Silent.

Like ink from a pen,

In a letter violently written.

My father leads me by the arm.

This man, 

Who watched me grow

Beneath his roof

And kept these hands 

From running with blood,

Now leads me 

To leave me.

The isle stretches,

As though the end walks away 

At the pace we approach it.

But we can't

Step 

Any 

Faster.

Just inhale,

Step,

Exhale, 

Repeat.  

The faces in the room,

Some dabbed with a tissue,

Some smile till their cheeks grow crimson,

Some eyes fill, 

All full of memories.

Directed at me.

Or rather,

The vail that is me.

Please don't see the woman beneath.

Perhaps if I walk straighter,

Disguise my scarlet hands in the rose petals,

Then they will see a bride.

Pure,

Like a blank sheet of paper.

Flawless as a porcelain doll.

No cracks in her delicate, 

Glass skin.

Saved,

And treasured on a shelf too high 

For violent hands to reach, 

Or greedy hands to steal.

Unbroken.

Untouched 

But for her maker.

Whom she awaits.

Yes.

This is what they all will see,

And what they will think of 

When they think of me.

But will you?

My father slips his arm from mine.

And I am alone.

Alone in front of the eyes, 

The memories, 

The judgement,

The laughing,

The heart ache,

The love, 

The hatred, 

And you.

You and your uncovered face

And your perfect eyes 

That I fell for.

You and your perfect hands 

And gentle fingers 

That pieced together 

My every imperfect portion.

Your hands, 

Calloused and hard.

Capable of  shattering me 

Into a million splinters 

By one simple movement.

Or one simple stare, 

Or one simple word.

And I'm blown away like sand.

Like the dust you built me from.

The nothingness that is me.

Perhaps you could start over again,

Re-build a new treasure for yourself,

Something flawless,

Something you could  call your masterpiece.

Or maybe you wont notice the blood, 

Traced from my skirt to the end of the isle.

Perhaps you wont notice 

The ring that I broke.

The cymbal of eternity 

In two severed ends,

Jagged and twisted, 

Facing away,

When it was meant to be one.

Just don't.

Pull back.

The vail.

Don't love me anymore.

Leave me, 

And remember me beautiful.

But you step closer,

And whisper,

"It is finished."

And the the vail is torn,

Falling in shreds on the tile floor.

I feel your breath on my naked face.

On the cracks in my skin, 

Stinging as the mixture of makeup and tears 

Collects in the crevices.

My burning eyes stray from you 

As though they can hold onto my secrets,

Hold onto my brokenness 

Just a little longer.

I hurt you.

I ran away and left you.

I fell and I broke

And I collected my pieces 

And wrapped them in a white dress 

Like I could be good enough for you again.

But I fell too far.

I drop the roses,

The petals gather about the remains of my vail.

And open my palms.

Look at them.

Do you expect your bride to say 

'"I do"

When the very isle she walked 

To reach you,

Smeared 

From the blood on her hands?

Your fingers touch my chin,

As you gently lift my broken face 

To meet yours.

You're eyes are raining too.

Your hands take mine,

As new flesh fills the scars,

Replaced with blood flowing from 

Your own hands 

To your punctured feet.

The cracks in my face seal,

And blood trickles down your own forehead,

Past your perfect eyes

That look upon me.

Your masterpiece.

"I do."