A Rose Torn Apart

Romantic mystery, ha. Deep understanding, ha. Intense yearning, ha. You know, romanticism should be guillotined. It is the root of unfair expectation and misguided interpretation. In order to maintain the fantasy, it occupies itself in the eyes and nose, the lips and cheekbones. Yes, it resides in the physical appearance of its human puppets. Smiles and gazes do well to bewitch and capture, yet to penetrate beneath the muscle and dermis is to expose the lie. Lust masquerades as a poem; sweet lines dripping over his tongue, spilling over, languishing softly on his lips. Greed is disguised in the vibrancy of a red rose, the smoothness of expensive chocolate, and in the touch of velvet palms. So often, dreaming girls mistake attention for care, or conversation for understanding. The emotions seem so earnest, the efforts so sincere. Yet these shallow demonstrations are little more than a high-gloss finish on a clogged outhouse. It has been said that however much you polish a turd, it is still a turd. A diamond ring is romanticism's polished turd. A five-star dinner on a terrace in Paris, France is romanticism's polished turd. Rose petals and champagne are, you guessed it, polished turds. Don Juan's turd had the polish which Jack the Ripper's turd lacked. And that, my friends, is a rose torn apart.