O, help.

Her hair is a braid of flowers, her crown and her strength. Yet, completely sane and well-assuming, She believes her mind is choked by weeds. In trusting it is a rank place, tangled in vines, she begins pulling out the flowers name by name, violet, daisy and fennel. She pulls her strength, she pulls her innocence, she pulls that which made her faithful. She is afflicted and can see no green. As if in drunken stupor, she pulls that which kept her sane. She pulls the beauty from her affliction. A full garden, her mental state was environmentally stable. It was luscious and full. Yet still she pulls and she descends to environ-reasonable yet this is exactly what state she cannot stand.

She was an infant in spring. Her mind was twisted in beauty and filled with the scent of the flowers that bent towards the sun. She looked upon affliction, she looked upon tyranny and madness and must use her hands to change it. Her hands are at it, moving viciously, erratically, pulling and weeding and her fingers climb the vines that compartmentalise her mind into tiny boxes of fiction and fact.

They told her if she looked upon affliction, it would take a garden to mend the pain. They told her if her mind started to be weighed down by terrors and trapdoors, then she should imagine fields of green. She could not hold it in. She descended to deep seas. O, if only she knew, help was on the way. Her help was hemmed in a posie of flowers that braided in her hair, in her mind, in her cerebral courtex. Her help was given to her, in strength, in innocence, in faithfulness. O, help, fields of green were what lay ahead. Yet they were exchanged for an unrighteous sea. O, help, you were not meant for this. O, help, it had not stung you yet. Show me a garden, and I’ll show you pain. Show me a garden, and I’ll tell you your name.

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