Its thorns lash within him, the poisonous plant growing ever so slowly, ripping at his insides and slowly tearing him apart.
It hurts, but he never wants to say anything, he never wants to let anyone in on his troubles. So he isolates himself, taking small steps back whenever someone comes near, and ready to turn on his heel and take his leave. He doesn't understand, he thinks it's a sickness. He wants to get away from it, but whenever he tries, it latches back onto him, still spreading the poison throughout his body. They've become worried about his behaviour, his words and his isolation.
He spoke nonsense, of an imp girl who was his friend when no one else was there.
He spoke of the pain, of having people being afraid of him, but who could be scared of such a gentle soul?
He spoke of greed, a longing to get his friend back, the friend who left him.
He spoke of desperation, without meaning ever sound desperate at all.
The thorns continue travelling throughout his body, his cries piercing the early twilight as he thrashes around menacingly on the cold grass. It seemed to him as if the only one who could hear his cries was himself.
The thorns struck again, this time, into the place where he held her dear, resulting in another piercing cry. His face became damp from the tears that fled his eyes. Again and again, the thorns would strike in the same, tender spot.
He tries to fight the pain of the thorns, the sickness that grows within him, but he cannot find the strength he once held to do so.
He cannot find the strength in himself to let her go.