Mains de fleurs

It began as an itch, a slight enticing annoyance

as the flowers portrayed their first sign of season.

Little heads cracking open,

splitting, revealing something beautiful,

erupting in a sweet lingering scent. 

But their leaves began to leave a scratch on the skin.

Line by line,

thorns would soon reveal themselves

as they would soon puncture the very one who provided them

life. 

The bouquet was arranged, a façade of beauty.

The garden would flourish, clusters of flaxen stars littered like plastic

and that metallic stench left to linger

For each blessing came a curse,

an itch, a scratch, a cut.

Their nourishment falling like tears.

Pretty blonde things, infested with a hue of crimson.

And as the flowers in her head bloomed,

scars began to show like a young tigers stripes.

A depiction of courage.