This one is heavy and has very sharp edges. I think I cut myself lifting it to look inside.
I like the use of visual symmetry. I gives a sense of movement and funnels everything to the center verse. I appreciate the metaphors of the rose's stench and the acid rain poured over the virgin sprout.
It makes me think too, how, as a society, we probably did nothing but rub salt into the wounds of this morning's wonder. The first act of violence was from the charming rose, but was there a second act of violence perpetrated by social mores and expectations? I am speaking here from an American point of view and what I see in my own culture.
A woman's worth is not measured by some imaginary fantasy of purity.
A woman's worth is not determined by who has been between her legs.
A woman's worth is measured by what is between her ears and, especially, what lives behind her ribs.
The last is true for all people really. I wish we had a chance to tell this to people like Camellia. I'm sorry if this one got me thinking too much. Camellia's story is sad. That should be enough.