She had a pleasure in stealing flowers and catching fish just to return them to water. It was those moments that also had her blood pumping harder, making itself present. In these moments, she was left with the confirmation that she was a body. Her presence undeniable, she could touch the hearts of others like herself and only hope to bring the same realization to them that she so frequently discovered. But, as most things do, the moments would pass. Her body would go back to equilibrium and wait for another taste.
In the spring time, she found poppies sprouting from her wrists. But every time she wept to water them, they would begin to wilt. So she made a bouquet of orange every night, giving her house the color it lack and the fulness it could not do without. The neighbors would look in amazement at the flowered house; the poppies bursting through windows and consuming the lawn. People began to walk up and ask
Can we pick some?
and she would say
Yes, yes.
In the winter, the poppies left as all living things must do. But, the people kept talking, telling stories of the girl who had brought color to the loneliest of days. In fact that her house, draped in orange glory, made headlines. So her scars never stopped sowing seeds and her tears never brought floods.
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