First you erupt into flames in the middle of the room -spontaneously fluttering into a thousand flickering tongues of white hot anger- while everyone else around you goes on with their endless chatter of taxes and money and children and . . .
Second, you collapse into a heap of ash. Your blackened bones intact amidst the grey dust of your skin, the ghost of your hair and your smile vanishing without a trace. Unavoidably gone. You’d love to stay alive. Keep the blushy red of your cheeks lighting up the day of the ones you love most but perhaps..
Third, you think maybe the whole reason you are alive was never about pursuing your dreams. You recognize the hollow of your mouth, the promise less kiss of nothing more and more of nothingness. Collecting the rubble of your abandonment amidst the swirling mass of rotten regrets piling one on top of each other. Realizing, it was never for you but always for them and so maybe..
Fourth, you feel the buds of your daydreams land on your toes -all whithered and brown and crisp and old. Roots digging deeper and deeper into the hardened ground searching for more to hold and anything to contain. It’s okay. You’ll be fine. Terror is the way to live again. However, there is..
Fifth,you feel them stitch your eyelids smaller. Cutting the edge of your tongue, to protect the beating little berry that resides on paper cage of your chest. Thorns sprouting on your skin, poison oozing from your lashes. It’s okay. You’ll be fine. New flowers, new flowers. You should have more flowers, they said..
Sixth, your arms crack and tingle. They burn and they ache. But it is good, they said. It means you’re growing. In no time you’d be gigantic enough to be taken seriously. Perhaps the woodcutter would kiss your waist lovingly but..
Seventh, you blossom underneath the noon day sun. Flowers. Flowers. Flowers and fruits. You should drop them- all of them. Help the woodcutter prune you into one of them..