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Where All Flowers Begin to Grow

Pencil stains the palm of her hands as the journal begins to pulse and grow. Hidden flower petals tucked comfortably in between the pages, a humble reminder of the simple things that still surround her. Yellow paint stains decorate her denim jean pockets, a bit of August sun attached to her as she whistles on the path she continues to pave. The apparitions of what was linger at a close distance behind her, dancing in mockery as her back faces them. The ghost of him in chains just behind her, like a serpent hissing, he whispers for her to forgive once more. His spirit choked in her throat and settled in her lungs, but growth taught her how to finally exhale. Dandelions kiss her feet as she walks to somewhere better, humid air embracing her tightly as she begins to finally move. Wrists sore from his shackles. Knuckles white from holding on for too long. But now she’s wrapped in her cocoon, morphing. His brutal marks fading, her forgiving nature diminishing. The golden atmosphere coils around her frame and reveals an illuminating sky, void from his dense clouds that casted over her and kept hid the warming rays of the late summer sun. The empty canvas and unwritten pages allow her to filter out the last bit of poison that remains of him. Her electric yellow masking over his royal blue.

Where All Flowers Begin to Grow

Pencil stains the palm of her hands as the journal begins to pulse and grow. Hidden flower petals tucked comfortably in between the...