There is a forest inside me, blooming in my belly. Miniature trees, with bushy, broccoli heads, dip their roots into my stomach and drink the acid, like water. Flowers twine around my ribs, sprouting in the spaces between them. When they wilt, their petals dance around and create a plethora of butterflies swirling through me. The grass grows below, around my hips and pelvis, climbing higher and higher, like vines, trying to graze their soft bristles against the stems of beautiful plants. But then, fire blossoms. It is a creature clobbered together out of tongues, at its core is a stomach. It has no eyes to see, no ears to hear, and no mouth to speak. It reaches out with its multitude of tongues to lick the delicate petals before curling around them to draw them in. It consumes, it spreads. Its eating me alive. It bursts from my ribs, spitting out unwanted leaves, that make a swirling tornado of green moths in the apple core pit of my gut. The more the fire eats the greedier it gets, until its drawing heat from my toes and fingertips to make it burn hotter and brighter. My heart starts beating hard. Pounding against my chest, until it bursts into a thunderstorm. The lightening screams as it flashes by, while the thunder roars. The rain soothes the fire into slumber, but it starts to leak outside of me. And I'm crying. |