When I was young I was told there was a flower growing inside me,
as there is in all of us.
I was told to take care of the flower and let it grow.
When I was younger I didn’t realise that this flower was a reflection of myself.
Being an over-imaginative child, I believed this flower to be true,
and grew as the ones in the garden.
I made stories of where it could have been planted, and who had put it there;
I believed so deep that this flower was truly growing,
that I began to feel it evolving inside me.
Its stem made its way around me, starting in the belly, and working its way up.
Leaves bloomed upon its spine, crawling and falling down my arms;
there, they have decayed for many years.
Now, almost twenty years later, the flower has made its way past the oesophagus and lodged itself within my throat.
I find it difficult to breathe most days.
My vision blurs and my limbs go numb;
not enough oxygen is reaching my brain.
I wonder what a full breath feels like.