He often thought about what kind of flowers he wanted to grow in his garden.

Tanned, lithe fingers pulled and plucked at the wild flower closest to his outstretched arm. The wind ruffled the grass around him and lazily pushed the clouds along in the high sky. His glazed, unfocused eyes watched them change shape without actually ever changing. His fingers continued to rub at the petals.

Everything hurt. The petal in between his languidly moving fingers was probably laced with millions of tiny needles that scratched against the too soft pads of fingertips. The grass below him felt like it was scraping against his back, or maybe burning.

Everything hurt. His eyes burned and it felt like he hadn’t blinked in hours, having watched the clouds come and go. They were like millions of rays searing into his eyes in the softest way possible. The wind swept over his body in rolls of waves. It felt like a steam roller was repeatedly moving back and forth over him in the most gentle way.

One petal crashed to the ground. His fingers absentmindedly found another one to pick at.

Was that dirt crawling over his skin? No, that was dirt becoming his skin. His skin was the dirt. No, that was the grass. The dirt was his blood, what ran through his veins. His skin was vibrant green with life. Healthy looking. The soil was fertile and easily settling, sturdy enough to support a growing tree but gentle enough to nurture even the most delicate flower.

What kind of flowers?

He often thought of what kind of flowers he wanted to grow in his garden. Bluebells would wilt, no matter what. He didn’t think his soil could support aster tataricus flowers. Maybe he should just plant fields and fields of red poppies. Red poppies everywhere. It would kind of look like someone stabbed the earth, though wouldn’t it? But they were red poppies, no one would care if the earth was bleeding – no one would care if they were red poppies.

Maybe not those kinds.

Primroses seemed like a good enough idea. They were pretty. People liked looking at them. Maybe he should plant primroses in his garden.

The sun bathed his vibrant green skin, warming him to the core. Something jiggled inside him, like hundreds of coins in a piggy bank. It kind of tickled. A lazy smile spread over his face.

What if someone came along and tried to plant into his garden? He frowned at the thought – they would just ruin it all, wouldn’t they? Or maybe the primroses drew them in. It would be so pretty if someone planted red spider lilies. Those seemed like they were hard to take care of, but if someone cared enough . . .

The earth below his body seemed like a warm bed and nothing was hurting so much anymore. The dirt running through him finally settled down and the ticklish jiggling finally stopped. The blades of grass that were the hairs on his tanned arms waved gently with the wind which drew his watery eyes shut finally. No, he wasn’t crying. The tears were because he hadn’t closed his eyes in such a long time.

Such a long time . . .

Time moved fast. Faster than he thought.

Before he knew it, he was already budding. Cute little buds were settled everywhere over his body. Just a little while longer . . .

Not too long after, he was in bloom. Vibrant flowers were sprout from most of his body, and the rest of him was covered with lush grass, rolling gently in the wind like it had always been.

They were sweet peas.

a/n: usage of hanakotoba. you should leave a comment, it would make me happy. also, this is what happens when i write at 5am. someone stop me.

also hey if you haven't, you should check out some of my other writings, especially maybe i could use another cigarette. thanks!