A/N: Written for the WIXOSS Flash Bingo, #057 – flower sung.
If only the Flowers Sung their Pain
If the flowers had ever sung for her, she might have understood
they were more than things to be admired, more than things
to be trampled underfoot when the beauty paled
Because all beauty paled. She grew to hate it,
to crush it underfoot
and that was the beautiful thing, to watch it blacken at the edges,
change colours: a rich brown, a vibrant red –
It was too bad little insects didn't bleed.
It was too bad flowers didn't bleed
but people bled. And that was a beautiful thing
except when stares of disgust, stares of concern
came to scar the pages
But even more beautiful are these colours: her blasts of black,
the colours: white, red, green, blue – they clash against.
And no-one could scold her now. Say it's not proper. Say it's cruel.
This was a world for children and children didn't cringe at the sight of blood.
Flowers didn't either, and it wouldn't have been worth the step up
to insects if they did.