Flower

And the stem riddled with thorns, filling her throat with blood were worth it, of course. Because she was beautiful. And that is all that matters. Of course, nobody knew of the thorns digging into her skull. Her screams were muffled by the delicae yet striking rose growing out of her mouth. And no, she could not speak, not that it would have made a difference. She was a face, not a voice. Like a display in a museum. Something to be admired, but never touched. The darkness inside her only grew from there, taking form in words that begged to crawl out of her mouth. But they were trapped in a cage inside her, destroying her mind, trying to break free, the only way out, a noose. But then again, beauty hurts.

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