they are around every corner, across every field and meet me at every turn. they inhabit every corner of my life, drown me in their light and life until i am sick with the scent of it all. i can't imagine my life without the flowers, and yet, there is not a single part of me that loves them, not a single bone in my body that sings with joy every time a boy shows up on our front stoop, bouquet in hand and heart ready for the break.
i was born in the springtime, only a few minutes after maisy, and there's so much poetry in all of that that it makes me sick just thinking about it. i have never felt like i belonged here, in this place where nothing good ever happens. mais always says some morbid shit about how without romantics, we'd be fucked. it makes me so angry every time that she says it, but it exhausts me all the same. who has the energy to care so much about a guy who came and left sixteen years ago? i don't care that i know his name, and i definitely don't care knowing that i have other siblings somewhere out there across seven. she makes everything about love, and anger at the lack of it, and her stupid, desperate need for it.
at least that's what it seems like.
all she does is complain about it, moan about her anger and her exhaustion, and it's exhausting. it's like the universe has demanded from me that i feel everything she feels, even when i don't want it, just because we're twins. you'd think three girls raised on flower beds would be happier, would be kinder, would have blossomed the same way the flowers we pluck from the ground have. you'd think that mum, with the flowers in her hair and the kindness in her bones, that the world would be kind to her, that her buried romantic's heart would be allowed to flourish, but that's not the way of shit around here. i don't know what it is about all of us, don't know what any of us did in our past lives to deserve all the bullshit we throw at each other, but it must have been something horrible.
maybe mais burned down an orphanage.
maybe mum stole from people for a living, took their secrets and turned them into food on her table.
maybe i killed a queen, someone beloved by all the people. maybe i was a nightmare, half-girl and half-shadow, a figment of someone's imagination in the dead of night as i slipped a blade into someone's throat. maybe my past incarnations have tasted blood and sweat, told lies and pulled the rug out from beneath every good soul walking. maybe the flower's i take from the ground aren't the first lives that i've ever taken.
i think that if i were a plant that i would be a wild rose bush. i think that i would lure people in with charm and beauty, and then scratch everyone that came to close, remind them that i am a thing to be admired from afar.
i think i would be all thorn.
Last Edit: Jul 17, 2019 23:20:31 GMT -5 by kaitlin