The Flowering by Jameson Grey

I've always loved to be loved.

I look down upon myself, endlessly gazing at my reflection in the spring, reminded of my late twin sister's beauty. Of my beauty.

I cannot leave now.

The air is no longer air. It has shifted—throttling my lungs as it flows through—like breathing has reversed somehow. Light-headed nausea tangles my mind, my guts.

My skin, it mottles. Bones soften, wilt. I strain toward the sun.

My feet take root. Become roots, drawing sustenance from below.

At this spring, I've been reborn while I watch. And although I remain Narcissus, I am flowering.