Flowers

This is not a self experience piece

There is a darkness inside, buried under my skin, hiding beside my soul. It has been there for a while now, growing, poisoning, invading. It is a flower of sorrow, a flower filled with poison. An inky darkness sitting on my appendix. It spreads, leaking, cracking and flowing through my veins. Invading my red blood cells. It stretches and expands its thorny branches deep into my bones, eating at my marrow. Fueling its ravenous growth with lost dreams. The flower’s roots spread out, intertwining with my spine. Weaving in and out of my vertebra, squeezing between. Small dark fingers winding up my nerves, twirling them around and around and around the darkness. The poison reaches my brain, extending into the frontal lobe, taking happiness with it. There is a pause, a moment of hesitation, a moment of forgetful euphoria. Before the strike, like a cobra, sharp, quick and violent.

The invasion has taken years; the flower, fueled by a lifetime of disappointments, is grown, finished. If I were to slice my finger, you could peer inside and see the infectious darkness, woven so perfectly throughout my body. The blood would drip out tinged with inky blackness. It is perfect, really, such intricacy. The de-weeding is impossible now, an inoperable flower. All the tugging and pulling, it will not ever leave, one cannot excavate a flower of this proportion. The smallest fraction forgotten and it will grow again, stronger, mutating.

There is a sensation, a squeezing that comes with the flower, its searching for more fueling, emptying me of my hopes, my joy. It takes it all, leaving the harsh unrealistic world. A world filled with flowers of depression.