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deernet2021-09-24 10:17 pm
hauntedsavior) wrote in deernet2021-09-24 10:17 pm
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Lobrede für eine Blumengarten // anonymous text post
This is a story of six sisters. Flowers, each of them, unique and dangerous and loved by all within their garden, despite what their thorny stems and twisted roots may say. A curious collection of plants indeed. Those who enter the garden can no longer relate to those outside it, and those who leave do not recall what made life inside the gate so special.
A tangle of Jasmine binds the gates of the garden closed. She is clever, whip-smart and prickle teeth, and her roots descend deeper into the ground than she knows. A slow growth, but a careful one, one that looks down every possible path of the trellis before deciding which direction to spread, to take over. And once she decides, may anything in her way be damned. She will have control, understanding, complete knowledge. Even if she cuts a red line through each and every one of her sisters to get there, she is loved.
We cut a leaf that we may remember how she bled.
Weeds grow along the floor, golden flax spinning its roots and stems across each of the sisters. Blue blossoms, two leaves to a flower, grow only ever around the others and never once alone, as though it does not know which identity it should have. It provides color and fragrance, and the light it takes in is used only as fuel for the other sisters. Somehow, fragile Commelina persists as her world changes around her. Or is Carmelina the one who changes? Does it matter? She remains herself despite it all, and she is loved.
We cut a leaf that we may remember how she bled.
Hidden away in a dark corner is Violet, iridescence only shining at the most particular time of night. Her flowers remain closed, though when they do bloom, they will give the most mystifying sense of calm. Normally, the leaves are sharp as shears, but when she's opened herself up she will show the gardener who cares for her exactly that same level of care in return. She is a creative one, her bed strewn with the detritus of the garden twisted by her own hand into beasts and dolls of bone and dirt. Her cleverness borders on obsession, and though few understand her, she is loved.
We cut a leaf that we may remember how she bled.
Patches of Clover fill the holes in the bed. She springs from the walls, seeps into the soil of other pots. Chokes out the Commelina and begs its forgiveness in the same breath. If she grows thick enough, she can hide her true nature. Hide that she believes herself to be nothing more than a weed that should be burnt out. But she never understood how the sight of her can be comforting, nor how precious seeing her real form is. Maybe she doesn't know who she is, beneath everything. Or maybe she does, and that's what terrifies her. Whoever she is, she is loved.
We cut a leaf that we may remember how she bled.
And furtive Venus, so easily forgotten. Venus, who never crossed the threshold. She bloomed at the gate, an insatiable growth, the heart a bundle of tightly wrapped vines not to keep others out but to take others in. Opening the vines would reveal a home, a hearth for the field mice and crickets who might normally be terrified of her teeth, her jaws. But as she never entered the garden, she never learned to use them. None remain who can tell her whether this was the better outcome. She is not with her sisters, but she is not alone; she is loved.
We cut a leaf that we may remember how she bled.
Those who paid close attention in the beginning may note that one flower in this garden remains unaccounted for. She is not ready yet. Until then, tread carefully among the flowers. Pay them respect. Leave your offerings.
Remember their stories.
((any replies to this post will still be anonymous.))
A tangle of Jasmine binds the gates of the garden closed. She is clever, whip-smart and prickle teeth, and her roots descend deeper into the ground than she knows. A slow growth, but a careful one, one that looks down every possible path of the trellis before deciding which direction to spread, to take over. And once she decides, may anything in her way be damned. She will have control, understanding, complete knowledge. Even if she cuts a red line through each and every one of her sisters to get there, she is loved.
We cut a leaf that we may remember how she bled.
Weeds grow along the floor, golden flax spinning its roots and stems across each of the sisters. Blue blossoms, two leaves to a flower, grow only ever around the others and never once alone, as though it does not know which identity it should have. It provides color and fragrance, and the light it takes in is used only as fuel for the other sisters. Somehow, fragile Commelina persists as her world changes around her. Or is Carmelina the one who changes? Does it matter? She remains herself despite it all, and she is loved.
We cut a leaf that we may remember how she bled.
Hidden away in a dark corner is Violet, iridescence only shining at the most particular time of night. Her flowers remain closed, though when they do bloom, they will give the most mystifying sense of calm. Normally, the leaves are sharp as shears, but when she's opened herself up she will show the gardener who cares for her exactly that same level of care in return. She is a creative one, her bed strewn with the detritus of the garden twisted by her own hand into beasts and dolls of bone and dirt. Her cleverness borders on obsession, and though few understand her, she is loved.
We cut a leaf that we may remember how she bled.
Patches of Clover fill the holes in the bed. She springs from the walls, seeps into the soil of other pots. Chokes out the Commelina and begs its forgiveness in the same breath. If she grows thick enough, she can hide her true nature. Hide that she believes herself to be nothing more than a weed that should be burnt out. But she never understood how the sight of her can be comforting, nor how precious seeing her real form is. Maybe she doesn't know who she is, beneath everything. Or maybe she does, and that's what terrifies her. Whoever she is, she is loved.
We cut a leaf that we may remember how she bled.
And furtive Venus, so easily forgotten. Venus, who never crossed the threshold. She bloomed at the gate, an insatiable growth, the heart a bundle of tightly wrapped vines not to keep others out but to take others in. Opening the vines would reveal a home, a hearth for the field mice and crickets who might normally be terrified of her teeth, her jaws. But as she never entered the garden, she never learned to use them. None remain who can tell her whether this was the better outcome. She is not with her sisters, but she is not alone; she is loved.
We cut a leaf that we may remember how she bled.
Those who paid close attention in the beginning may note that one flower in this garden remains unaccounted for. She is not ready yet. Until then, tread carefully among the flowers. Pay them respect. Leave your offerings.
Remember their stories.
((any replies to this post will still be anonymous.))