The paintbrush is delicate as it leaves a smooth trail of cold, wet paint over my arm.
The white lines extend over the bone structures of my arm, and soon, my hand.
It dries and sticks to my skin. It looks like a white nothing.
The black paint spills over the pale skin and outlines the crisp white bones.
Everything is coming together, but I don't want it to.
I want it to look the way I feel.
Flowers and vines spill along the white bones, wrapping around them, beautiful yet painful.
They wind up, up, up, circling the fragile bones until they snap and splinter and break.
They wind up, up, up, trapping my heart, thorns catching drops of red.
They wind up, up, up, tighter and tighter until my heart cannot move any longer.
Flowers can be so dangerous.