wilted roses,
a rose that never wilts isn't
a rose at all.
fiore; a benediction. she wove deceased honeysuckles into her hair with dainty fingers and held hyacinths in her eyes. she was the virginal white lily, the sensuous rose, and the shimmering carnation. she spoke to all who were willing to listen, and yet, it seemed as if she conversed only with herself; babbling on, and on, and off about flowers – the wonderful essence of chakra that surrounded them, and the simplistic glory of them all.
when she was in full bloom, it was in the warmth of the peach-tinted sun. her painted petals flourished; her fragrance, ambrosial. it was then that she truly became one of them. the flowers swayed, fiore swayed. the flowers endured, fiore endured. it was a process; a kind of trembling grace. they lived, and fiore lived too.
it was in the alluring glow of the clinquant, pearl moon that fiore would retreat back into the mist of solitude; gently tucking in her multi-colored petals as she faded. and it was then that she was seen her at her rawest. no dazzling petals, no half - heart - shaped leaves, and no viridescent stems. nothing but the things that kept her grounded — nothing but roots.
THERE WAS A GIRL, A FLOWERY GIRL,
fiore was a flower girl — not in the sense that she was bold or brilliant, but that in which she was fragile, innocent, and naive.
AND THEN, THERE WAS THE WORLD.
the world was cruel — cold, unforgiving, indifferent. because mama earth didn't stop her orbit for anyone, not for the gods, and especially not for little girls with delicate petals.
FLOWER GIRLS VS. CRUEL WORLDS
the victor was predestined before time itself, and they should have known it.
because flower girls like her didn't last long in cruel worlds like these.
