Minimal Damage

Strange that her aesthetic is so clean cut
When she herself overflows with
oceans
of red paint, dragon scales, endless flower bouquets
that she never speaks of

Strange that she can’t laugh it off
when he tells her it was nothing
and poison boils bitter inside her

She knows for him, for them
it is just a hiccup in the grand scheme of things
A small scrape at most
just minimal damage

But for her it means the world
(or the end of it. Sometimes she’s not sure)
because maybe it’s her fault for
not telling anyone

How can she though
when just one mocking half-thought can
take root to tear her apart the way

Strangler figs choke the breath from trees

written for daily prompt: minimal

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