His hands smell of blood and rose, from all the times the callous needle dug into his flesh instead of the flowers. At 14, he has weaved more garlands than stars in the dreary summer sky. Blood doesn’t seep out of this wounds anymore, there isn’t much left of that in his frail weather beaten limbs. Infinitesimal black holes of unnoticed pain, these wounds suck in soft velvety petals of gradient red roses into the boy’s bloodstream. Wound after wound, petal after petal, the boy continues to fix one fragrant flower on top of another. His bones soften, wither and disappear as dust, only to be replaced by bloodied rose petals. The garland continues to swell in curvy swirls and intricate segments that stretch to the horizons of infinity. So consumed is the weaver in his effort that he reaches where no garland weaver ever had – to the end of the line. Patiently he pins down his last flower in the line but his rose-petaled brain miscalculated the distance; he needs one more flower to finish his quest. In the gap between the inhale and exhale, the boy lifts his needle and skewers himself perfectly in the middle. Pulling the thick white thread through his mangled abdomen, he firmly attaches his red cadaver to the garland and breathes his last rosy breath. The garland is now complete.
Published by The Scrawlyst
In search of coffee that is as strong as my desire to break down into a million pieces, which when put together create the most beautiful words ever known. View all posts by The Scrawlyst