I lived in a flower: a dandelion, not a rose, but still my home.
Cruel hands plucked it from the earth and imprisoned it in ugly glass. They threw it aside when it wept and died.
I didn’t have their careless strength. I did have the favour of the earth and the ear of the wind. I waited and whispered and brought slow revenge.
They cried quake: bricks and mortar toppled with the rumble of the earth. The wind drew patterns in the dust. They harmed me not, so they were not harmed. But their home died as mine died.
Author’s Note: This didn’t really come from anywhere – unless something fae put it in my head as a warning. Maybe I should stop picking flowers…
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