i. it's as if your organs are only roots and you can reach through your ribcage and pull out a beating, petaled heart, blood pounding in a staccato rhythm, gliding through a body that mother earth designed for one purpose:
ii. to grow. and if the pulsing tendrils of your mind don't warn you a stumbling soul oozing arsenic blood and chloroform breath will.
iii. can you tell the difference? if not, the bloody butterflies in your eyes should keep them shut forever, or at least until you choose to grow. but how can you, when the beat of your breath is uneven and cold and ice breaks your leafy skin and lilac hair, and the salty seawater is more poisonous than refreshing.
iv. you know who the fault really belongs to. and it's not you, but the man who leaves you bouquets to thread through your ribcage and daisy chains that almost choke you. you wait in his ivory palace and leave a crimson rose by his door. someday, you know, your roots will strangle him and you will finally be free.
v. until then, though, you keep growing your garden, and sticking rose thorns beneath your skin, so should he hurt you again, you might be safe.
khloris, a greek goddess of flowers who was raped by the wind god zephyrus and then forced to marry him.