The Graveyard of Roses
Ireland Smith
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I visited the graveyard of roses today.
Where 1,270 new roses were planted,
one for every second of the
day.
Ripped, torn, and bleeding petals were scattered, thrown
across the ground
left to freeze
in the elements
left to rot
in the unforgiving wilderness of life.
Innocence lost to thieves,
to the wolves.
My rose is here too.
Along with countless others
gathered from around the world.
Here they are protected
from the memories of the attack
from the memories of the attacker
from the pain
the shame, the guilt
the feeling of being impure, tainted
flowers, who were discarded
after being
used.
Abused.
I still feel the claws
of the wolf,
piercing my throat and
cutting off my breath
my voice.
Ripping out my vocal cords,
leaving behind a flower devoid
of petals and the warm
carefree happiness
of innocence
that once existed in me,
my sixteen-year-old soul.
I can still feel its teeth
tearing at my lips, my flesh until they come away red,
crimson.
An assuring bloody grin
as it stalks its prey, who lay
paralyzed
palsied
petrified.
I knew what would happen next
but I was helpless to stop it,
to fight back
to scream
to do anything.
Anything but just
lay there.
Like a rose in a garden, basting underneath
the rays of the scorching sun unable
to move even as the birds swarm,
circling in closer.
Too close.
Please,
get away.
Petals ripped out from the nexus, blood and tears
dripping down the stem, until there was nothing
left but crinkled petals
left to be buried in the graveyard
of innocent roses.
With all the other victims of the wolf attacks I drop
to my knees at my gravestone, falling
under the weight of all the memories
kept hidden, kept protected,
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
kept locked away—
where it wouldn’t be real
where it would be a nightmare.
Just a haunting figure
in the shadows.
It was real.
Why was this real?
Wolves will always exist.
They hide amongst the trees, preying
on those drifting in the breeze.
Like cowards
Leaving behind eclipsed flowers in their wake.
Not all survive,
but those that do live
in a new garden,
the garden of resilience
with thousands of others.
We are stronger, more courageous.
The sun shines on us every day,
today,
reminding us that we are not
alone, never alone.
Bound together
by tragedy, by kismet.
And while a piece of us exists
in this graveyard, we continue to grow stronger
in the garden. Petals a little chaffed,
but beautiful and resilient
nonetheless.
Trigger Warning: This poem is written on behalf of those who have suffered from sexual assault and/or abuse. May be triggering for some.
Contributor's Note
Ireland Smith is a senior majoring in Biological Sciences and minoring in Chemistry, Psychology, and Literature. She plans to attend medical school next fall and become a physician. In the meantime, she enjoys writing poems to express complex human emotions and experiences, and often confronts heavy issues in her poetry to bring social awareness to them. She graciously thanks everyone who has been supportive of her writing over the years.
