to be hopeful.

the overgrowth is not a kind disease.

kirbella knows this, as her thorns twist tighter around her throat. she lifts a paw, ignoring the pain, as she tugs them back down to a reasonable location. she has learned that this pain, this pointless blood, will not kill her. the pinpricks in her paws, the holes under her fur, they are nothing.

she will not die just because some silly little thorns landed in the wrong place, no, she will move them of her own will, and make this disease into her rebirth.

she wipes at her mouth, long-since giving up on trying to swallow back the liquid that flowed freely from within her. long-since immune to the bitter taste of copper on her tongue. she would make more blood, that was how bodies worked. if she was so intent to bleed, she wouldn’t ever run out. there was no wither to her body, no sign of this endless flow hurting her.

it was no more than an annoyance, filling her mouth, her lungs, everything that it shouldn’t. she would be fine- she would cough, in private, on her own, and clear her throat for another time. it wasn’t the end of the world, nor would it ever be.

she will not wilt, just like the roses that grow from her vines. she admires them, now, in a mirror propped on her wall. they are kind to her, a beautiful accessory to an otherwise gentle girl. kirbella spreads her wings in a stretch, though her arms phase right through them as they beat. after all, they’re no more than a show- a puff of smoke, but pretty nonetheless. she is, after all, a blooming flower, why wouldn’t she be a pretty sight?

leaving her home, she follows the small path to the garden, hands falling naturally into the caretaker’s, wishing her a good morning. kirbella smiles, as she always does, and watches as her light spreads throughout the caretaker’s body, making her beam just as bright. this is how she works- her light will always spread.

her light- her love- will bloom throughout the garden today, just as it does every day, and there will be hope for tomorrow.