Then the second.
The third.
Each one cracking through cartilage with a sound I heard from the inside—wet, structural,wrong.Roots burrowed down my spine and I felt every vertebra come apart, loosening like a chain being pulled from both ends.
They found my stomach, wrapped around it, and squeezed until my throat locked and the sweetness of chrysanthemum flooded the back of my mouth.
Then the roots reached my heart.
They twisted around it.
Slowly.
They merged in the organ.
Threading through the valves.
Slipping between the chambers.
And my heartbeat changed. It stuttered. Skipped. Beat once around the roots and the flowerspulsedwith it, blooming in rhythm with my blood, feeding from the inside of my chest.
White petals unfolded from the splits in my skin, wet and perfect, and I understood.
The flowers weren't holding me.
They were replacing me.
“No!” My chest cracked open with newly blooming chrysanthemums. Then, a scream tore out of me before I knew it was coming. “Get out of me!!”
The sound carried across the water.
The gray sky devoured it.
The flowers didn't move.
No!
My eyes flew open.
I blinked several times and took in the stone ceiling above me.
It was a. . .dream. . .
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I looked down. Braids spilled across my chest. Brown skin pressed against mine. Nyomi's arm was draped over my stomach, her palm flat against my ribs, her fingers curled gently into the space between them.
I began to orient myself taking note that it was my Tiger’s fingers, not stems. Her lush brown skin, not white petals.
Just a dream.
I closed my eyes, exhaled a shaky breath, and thought about the type of flowers that had grown into me.
Chrysanthemums. The flower of grief.
Every autumn, my mother would place them on the altar for our ancestors.
My pulse wouldn't slow down.
