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She was sad, she noticed.
It was just another day, her and her flowers, common occurrences of toxic blooms filling her vision.
Her so-called friends danced around her and jeered and teased as vines of poisonous ivy seemed to cover their eyes and mouths, but never noticed when the flowers curled around her and latched onto her very veins and dug into her tendons.
She smiled lightly, and there was one less flower flooding her vision.
--
It was later when she realized her mistake.
Her wrist was held before her, but as she watched a drop of blood slide down the pen cut, all she can see is bright pink and white, and the suffocating smell of pollen chokes her.
Her very blood became the flowers.
Despite this, she never became sweet like honey and daisies. She became bitter.
--
One day, sunshine comes prancing into her life. A beautiful drop of wisteria, carefully perched and curled around a new classmate, approached her.
She is quiet and awed.
The wisteria curled around her own flowers, choking them away, letting them wilt and shrivel on their own.
Then there was a friend, and she was content.
The flowers no longer dug into her skin and covered her vision, for there was the solid stability of those beautiful wisteria vines.
--
She stared at the adult in front of her.
The adult seemed to stare back, an ox-eye daisy blooming across their face.
“How many flowers are you seeing today, _____?”
“I don’t see that many. I think I’m happy.”
The adult is quiet for a moment, then the flower petals peel away from the mouth and the adult smiles.
--
The wisteria was torn from her reach one day, and with it went her stability.
The wisteria had said that it needed to leave, and so the weeds and wild-flowers bloomed around her.
--
She stared at the adult.
The adult seemed to stare back, but she couldn’t tell with all the flowers covering the room.
The adult spoke, a quiet voice asking, “How are you feeling today, _____?”
She replies, “Sad.”
A simple answer.
The adult asks, “Why?”
She replies, “I lost my wisteria, and all the colors have grown back and I don’t know how to fix it.”
--
She sees the adult for one last time.
The adult asks, “How many flowers are you seeing today, _____?”
She replies, “None, I don’t see them anymore.”
The adult makes a pleased noise and says, “I think it’s unnecessary for you to come here now that the problem is solved.”
She turns and walks away, the path well practiced.
Her sight was blinded by the crimson tones of red spider lilies.
The adult’s voice rang behind her, yet she couldn’t hear past the constant unfurling of the blooms.
Faintly, she thinks the adult sounds so very morose.
She shrugs it off.
--
She fell.
Like Icarus, she fell.
What lay below was not sea, but a beautiful toneless gray.
Such a pity that she could not see its beauty.
To her it was only stained with red.
And all that was left was her was red.
There is no difference.
How pitiful, she was.