When we first met, she was but a seed. A mischievous **** sprouting in the grass where I lay. Her lanky leaves and long stem bothered me, and the way she never could sway the same way as the grass forced me resentful.
I poured lemon juice upon her, lathering her in the acidic liquid, wishing her to drown and in the hopes that she’d become more like the dry grass and in the hopes that she’d disappear among them.
Without effect from my malicious attempt of ridding her, my flower continued to grow. In observing this,  i refused her water. I enclosed her from the April rainfalls.
Because she was strong, and because of her faith in the spring, my flower kept growing with what little she had. In the summer, weeks past, i returned to see of what little was left of this ****. Only to find under a grass covered leather, a slouching flower with white, wilting petals still facing the sun.
I realised the beauty she’d composed and felt her consecrated seed sow within the pit of my stomach. Like a barbed hook embedded in a fish’s lip, a part of her anchored. Thorns leapt from my internal stem, oozing liquid, guilt venom.
I frantically poured sugar-water over her as she offered her berries to me.