Dandelions

(I haven't the finished version of this, I gave it to someone, I plan on retrieving it and copying it all down. This is far more than the unfinished version. It's slightly upsetting.)

Establishing itself within my well-known fictional soul, burying itself and burrowing, amplifying itself from root to stem, from a seed to an abundance of budding flowers, seemingly showing themselves less reluctant daily; less fearful of themselves and of their surroundings. You’re an infestation lacking reason. Pulsating through my awe-struck veins, torturing my mind as you crawl, spread yourself throughout my body, consuming the entirety of me, devouring all thought, redirecting my motivation, guarding my fear. Weakening my limbs as your plague penetrates the vulnerability of the one exposed, festering wound that lies within my chest. My soul becomes dependent upon your approval, your reassurance and acceptance, your need of my dependence. Where I once frequented a shrine that was dedicated to you, I now realize that dedication cascades through my body, nothing is stationed, sprawling and needy of cultivation, held everywhere within myself. It’s shone through my eyes, emanates through my pores, illuminating my behavior, making me glow, it obliges a smile from a nonexistent oasis, where you’re the root, the sole cause. It drenches me with fear whilst immersing me in elation, gratification. A feeling produced in which none other can replicate. If ever to be thrust out of my disposition, it’d be unobtainable for all of time; forever condemned to remain in a state of nostalgia, as there was no means of restoration or repair. Watch while I drown in my own insanity, my own sickness. Watch me, doused in my own effort to give you everything I ever could. A budding tree that grows until I stop. Until the time inscribed on my wrists begins running backwards, becomes something new. Eternally thriving, forever advancing itself beyond my control. An unstoppable force creating the most beautiful devastation any eyes could ever witness.  It’s relentless, a persistent mess that could never be satisfied or administered- though it always seemed to come through to its full potential. So fulfilling, and so demanding, an itching palm lies empty. Gluttonous streams adorn my cheeks and chin, plummet into a puddle of utter repulsion, never was such a prosperous aching conceptualized. Yet I yearn and plead for more, more of the infection to diffuse, for it to flourish, for it to never die, never to stop prevailing, never to stop contending, if it were ever trying at all. Anticipation couldn’t predict the amount of room you’d adopt beneath my crying, begging skin. The seeds planted, in bloom far before season would call for them, rising to the surface, inching through my pores with insurmountable amounts of pressure, completely dissimilar to any tangible human touch. Flowed from my fingertips with a sense of great belonging. They embark on an endeavor, take on a new existence full of more astoundment than anyone could realistically pursue. The stems would be encouragement, irrevocable care, a sense of truth bundled up into a pair of enchanting, asphyxiating eyes. Eyes that move with fascination, with wonder, perplexity, just as mine do, eyes that would exist through mine. Petals that would feel as I feel, roam as I roam, that would increase the intensity of living. Roots that would comprehend, understand as I do, walk without knowing why or when or how, hear without harboring much flexibility. The disease couldn’t be credited with establishing itself at any certain destination; it would float through me, unconquered. Once embedded never to be removed. Creeping through each vessel and each bone with much determination, unyielding to any cause, settling deep within every crevice, uncompromisingly extending itself beneath the surface. Climbing through my newly defenseless skin, as vines grow with a trellis, interwoven, intertwined, as if separation would only prove tem fatal. And as you shrivel each of my intentions to live alone, abandoned from these tortures, these treasures, I seem to succumb, to embrace, to love. With every elapsing day, as every crescent moon descends, my ambling mind never ceases to dwell upon those flowers, the misery that has demolished my body due to this crippling disorder. And yet, today, my isolation seems undeserved.