I’m sure by now you’ve heard those poems, dictated by the imagery of flowers symbolising love and loss. A rose, apparently a symbol of both love and death, suggests that two contradictions might even be synonymous.
I suppose you’ve read the tear stained pages of a girl in love and how a boy so selfishly planted seeds in her lungs that grew into the vines of vast wisteria, strangling her and suffocating her.
The tell-tale sign that determines whether somebody loves you, “he loves me, he loves me not”, became a notoriously bulletproof method as quickly as the leaves withered from the poor flower; the victim of such criminal poetry.
But have you ever heard of a poem that describes how the flowers growing from your chest are not symbolic of evil and you don’t have to tear them apart to determine their reality? These flowers won’t wither should you let them see the light. These flowers won’t wilt should you keep them hydrated and well-fed. These flowers won’t die should you learn to love them, and maybe this is a symbol for something other than petals and stalks.
This is a work of creative fiction, created for the prompt: flower.