Pressed Flower

I am like a pressed flower; preserved in my beauty yet trapped and restricted. The outlook for life considerably narrowed. My petals lay flat against bare walls, forever watching the same two, or perhaps it’s four? I keep my colour, but it is a mummification of its previous vibrancy. My vitality is a shadowed- skeleton. In some areas my colour has run, red spots trailing and biting into soft, white flesh. Tainted.

There is no way out, only darkness and unfortunate familiarity. I reach but there is nothing to reach for, nothing to hold on to, because the simple fact of the matter is that I am the thing being held on to; a thing being held in place.

With time my exterior beauty will fade, my edges will curl and yellow, and with more time I will be left to wonder whether such thing as interior beauty even exists, or whether the whole thing is nothing but a myth. What even is beauty when it’s out walking in the daylight? Is it a living thing or can something only be beautiful when it is held up in a case for the world to see and validate?

My mind, if I even have one, attempts to wander beyond the geography of my two, all-consuming walls, desperately searching for whatever it is that I used to be; used to want. Did I ever have passion, dreams, aspirations, or were they things that I was never granted permission to have. Can I feel?

My anger rises, turning my thoughts into wild blazes. I allow my eyes to burn through the opposite wall, watching the flame lick outwards, forming a sizeable hole, and then just pure, open space. I grow arms, legs, torso, stomach, heart, lungs, and a brain (unless it was already there before?) I take a huge leap and fall away from my shackles; escaping my paper prison, which was so ignorant in its attempt to cap my thirst, that it didn’t realise its vulnerability against natural, burning passion.


Laura Marie

Copyright: Laura Davis © 2016, all rights reserved.

*The image does not belong to me and was found on:


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