Been watching you in your bathroom. Steam makes patterns like young ferns on your window. The light inside, though too bright, looks like moonlight. You are pretty, curvy, delicious. To look away would be right thing to do but who can do right all the time?

Black hair weeps like willows over wet, white shoulders. Breasts bulge with promise the nipples fat and red as holly berries but your skin, is too soft for prickles. You are fragile as the autumn fallen and red blood pulses blue beneath the skin of your throat.

I cannot look away. I have crept closer to your window as day followed night. I do not think you have seen me. Surely had you done so, you would have called the authorities. You have not but was that kindness, ignorance, or even indifference? I almost wish you would. I ache for the blades as they sever my stalk. I dream in daylight of the hoe that will tear my roots from the soil.

My claws, my thorns, sharpen daily with the thought of your so fragile flesh. Soon I cannot hide from you. I can feel the petals shrieking to emerge and I cannot hold them back. If I had lungs, I would cough in delight at the thought of the moist scent between your thighs. My petals when they awaken will be the same shade as you are down there in your sweet and secret place.

That day comes and it is your cruel hands that wield the secateurs. I quiver as my claws cut you and your blood falls to feed roots and you smile at the scent of me even as you demolish me.

I can creep no more.

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