Shake off the dew, vibrations hanging on the edges of the row of flowers. Sharp thorns running up the stem, something brittle-wooden. Uncanny in the ability to draw blood from incidental contact. Transgressions of passing.
Thorns squall around me. A Stretching color game from hell. Leaving my limbs with little purchase in their airspace. They wail in acknowledgement, unaccustomed to being denied this entitlement.
Dug straight in from inside a well-hidden space, obscured by worn rock wall. My sullen form jitters-anticipation left to spoil.
The thorns collapse down, smelling the thrill of the hunt. I do my merit best to compress and contort away from their fall pattern. The edge of the raised, sharp-thornteeth.
New scratches and nominal droppings of blood smeared around my own edges, blots forming from my core outward. Constellations to color my form. A snarl denoting a victory across my face. I am made something uncommon. A new sense of whole. Known, smoothed out in the rush of emotion. A survivor, sipping the last few drops from the flowers. Thirst, trying to be quenched.
Again
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