There's a flower in her palm, with grains of soil and dirt. The flower isn't dead but it is surely hurt. Even though it's still alive it's barely holding on; within the warmth inside her hand it's roots are finally gone.
There's a flower in her palm, with grains of soil and dirt. The flower isn't dead but it is surely hurt. Even though it's still alive it's barely holding on; within the warmth inside her hand it's roots are finally gone.