I don’t remember when it started and I doubt I’ll remember when it ends, if it does end at all. I’m shocked that I didn’t notice it starting, but I wish I did. Maybe if I did, I could have found a way to stop it, snip it at the bud before it fully bloomed, before it grew to such an extent. My days grow foggier with each new addition to my body. On my left hand my ring finger have shed skin and bone, now from the stump grow red carnations. Though at times when they wilt, in their place grow yellow ones instead. When I blush a single red rose blooms on the tip of my nose, while my cheeks and the tips of my ears are adorned by white chrysanthemums. My hair has cactus spikes hidden inside of it, stabbing anyone who dares run their fingers through it. When I’m enraged the spikes fly from my head, as if responding to my rage with their own. As I walk around town, gardenias fly behind me, leaving a trail of white wherever I go. When I cry marigolds and daffodils fall from my eyes.