"Nevermore" says the bloom

Nevermore did she have to see the red of war. For now, it was time to come home.

Nevermore did she have to look to her other half for guidance, for now, the reflection in which she cast herself shatter.

Nevermore must she hear the cries for blood, for now, they merely weep, sickly, framing her face.

She relies on the water for comfort, to bathe in it, to keep from the release of her tempest from raging into the purity in which she sits. She fingered what appeared to be the last of her sanity. "O, my lovely." She breathed, calling at the reflection trapped within the edges.

"Nevermore." She whispered.

Nevermore did she have to feel as an encumbrance by her peers.

Nevermore did she feel bastardized by the one she called "Father".

Nevermore must she stand up at the chain that was used to strike her.

Nevermore.

She glared at her forearm, her canvas, her lifeline and growled. O how it ached for pain. She drew the brush, now splashed with her life, onto the canvas. She bared her own teeth, grunting at the release and glamoured the red. The red only reminded her of her anger, her hatred, her torment, her love. Meaningless. Numb. Neglected and alone did she find her feelings of red. She looked at her stream. How contemptible, something not worth the brilliance of red. Still, did she feel her life depleting into purity. She pierced her lower wrist, tucked her reflection into her skin and pulled up the flesh, ripping streams into rivers into falls until the purity became brilliant. She took one, blurry gaze at her markings, her artwork. A rose, not yet in bloom. This was her last gaze before she felt the darkness pulling at her eyelids. She exhaled her last breath and handed Death her premature bloom.

Nevermore did she have to thirst for the light of day.

Nevermore did she have to face the cold of winter.

But never can she bloom.

Never.