“Imagining crawling inside them, she fantasized the feeling of the bugs that would cover her arms and legs, burrow inside of her, and how the tree, strong and thick, would embrace her inside its darkness. Weeds and vines and flowers sprouting from her flesh as she pushed her fingers outward toward the warmth of the sun, becoming one with the tree, ancient, beautiful, mysterious. There was a hollowness in Blossom’s chest. As if someone had dug a hole into her sternum in preparation to plant something where her heart was supposed to be before getting distracted, allowing for worms to dig deeper into the soil, for spiders to lay eggs into the crevices of her flesh, and forrot to take place.”
