We are all born with flowers in our bodies. Little flecks of a dangerous nature built in to aid us, to help us thrive; like the iron in our blood, or the acid in our bellies, or the small flowers that grow in out guts.
We are born of the loving green, the protective green, the green that would swallow our bones without hesitation. What is given must also always return to it’s source, even if it takes centuries to do so.
In her steps, I saw an emissary of that beautiful and terrible nature. Her, with her rose color hair, her sun-kissed skin littered with flecks of soil and stone, and evergreen eyes. There was unnatural power in her taunt limbs, strength in her thorn sharpened gaze, in the long grasping fingers that reached up and up and up. Like the barren trees that reached for the warmth of the sun in winter.
How she ran; racing, unimpeded by the twisting roots overlapping the ground, like she was tracing long-worn paths, the rivers that threatened to drag her under should she but slip once. Oh, how she danced; angles and curves twisting, shifting like a flower in the breeze, pulled, pushed, but never broken.
And oh how she kissed. Breathing clean, refreshing air into my weak and smog-tainted lungs. Spreading warmth like the sun, bursting, alighting the metals in my blood, boiling the acid in my belly, creeping into every crevice until I became as blinding as her. Creeping down, and shining upon the deprived flowers I held within me.
In her I saw an emissary of a creeping green, an unignorably nature, a better world, sprung from gentle touches, and monumental moments left unseen, unnoticed but for me. She grew flowers in her belly, and awoke the whimpering saplings in mine. Remade me, painted my veins in shining golds and reds, and reset my crumbling, rotting body with her vitality.
In all of us grow flowers, little fleck of nature not so dangerous to us, as long as we treat them with the care we afford to the rest of out flesh, our bones, our internals. We are children of nature, and when we return, nothing but bones and whispering memories held by the living, our flowers will sprout, growing long after our blood has run dry.