Where the Wild Roses Grow: A Story of Murder

Walking down the bay beach, 

heading West,

the sun setting behind the

chesapeake bay bridge

a 17.5 mile expanse

that glows golden in the setting sun.

reminds her of when she came undone.

imagine to her surprise as the 

sand began to 

glow also before her eyes.

it was golden and glittery;

but as we all know,

not everything that glitters is gold!

upon closer inspection,

there seems to be a resurrection

of some buried treasure,

buried in golden topped mason jars in the strand.

the waves have washed away the protective coverings,

millions of grains of sand displaced,

so this girl would only have to face it.

where she has stuffed the broken pieces and 

buried them in jars in the sand.

the broken pieces, sharp shards of the mirrors, reflecting her

brokenness, the child who didn’t want to

remember any.of.this.mess.

knuckle deep in the places of keep,

her fingers bloodied and torn,

she could not help but to feel forlorn,

to see the secrets being reborn.

yet they called to her of her secrets they could no longer keep.

the more she dug, 

the more she found.

oh, my, where is the ground?

“i cannot do this alone,

i need a grave digger”

to excavate alone was an

impossible endeavor,

she silently thought.

undertaking such a blight,

usually she would have taken to flight.

on the dunes to her left, she could 

see what was left of her broken

image lying in the sand.

where the wild roses grow,

she wanted and she didn’t want to know,

what so ever could have broken her

into so many goddamn pieces that

she had to bury it is thousands upon 

thousands of jars in the sand.

little did she know that 

what they did to her on all those days

would change the way 

she would live out her fate

as a living dead girl 

until she was thirty-eight.

it was now time to reintegrate

all of those pieces once broken,

she could not believe the things

that she endured

so much innocence lost

and at what cost?




__/|\__ Metta

Interesting to discover that in some cultures children who were sacrificed in rituals were buried in jars, in the sand. 

image: Google 

Published by Tiffany

Writing out my thoughts has helped me to gain a new perspective of myself. In sharing these writings, it is my hope to help others to better understand themselves. It is my belief that with each of us who chooses this path of greater understanding of thy self, that it inspires others to do the same. This building momentum is the force that drives me to share, for in my vulnerability, I find my strength. I believe that you can also find yours there. ~~~In reading some of my posts, you will see that growth is not always pretty. It is in breaking apart and coming undone that a seed sprouts and breaks free of its own captivity. It is also out of mud that the lotus blossoms. ~~~Please join me in seeing the beauty of growth within the deconstruction of our limiting beliefs. ~~T.C.

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