The Sick Rose

BY WILLIAM BLAKE

O Rose thou art sick. 

The invisible worm, 

That flies in the night 

In the howling storm: 

Has found out thy bed 

Of crimson joy: 

And his dark secret love 

Does thy life destroy.

I don't know why but this poem has haunted me since my lecturer brought it to class about a month ago for us to analyze. Maybe it's because my lecturer kept on hinting at what a mischievous lover he used to be when he was at campus. Maybe it's because when we talked about it, we unanimously accepted that the persona was addressing a woman and it was only women who could get destroyed by love. Perhaps it is because I am a woman and my greatest fear is to be destroyed by love. I imagine me, plunging myself into passionate affair, losing my identity and exchanging it for his. I imagine that I forget to hold my own opinions, to think without thinking about what he thinks. I see myself  letting go of my dreams, hopes, and  desires for his. I imagine being silly enough to have sex, then to have sex without protection. I imagine myself pregnant, at a crossroads- should I keep it or abort? I imagine the shame, the hateful words that will come my way. My family is disappointed. My mother, she is contemplating forcing me to marry my lover. She is angry, not at me really, but at fate for letting history repeat itself. I imagine walking into church unsure whether to smile or cry. I see my friends, unsure of what to say. Should they congratulate or condemn me? I see myself alone. Lover does not bear the proof an illicit affair.