11.29.2019
Everything is quiet in the forest, the scarlet poppy didn't know what to do with herself. Silence is not a favorite, letting her sink into the drainpipe further. The creek seemed enough for ambiance and to drown out the silence. Fish swimming made her drowsy. Would she ever fit in?

11.28.2019
Happy Thanksgiving.

As if family wasn't anxiety inducing, trying to get involved with a group of friends hurt more than it helped her deal. She had to leave, She couldn't stand it. She realized in the first five minutes that she actually wasn't having fun because she was just background noise. She tried to fit in, tried hard, but in the end, it hurt more. She left and decided to vent alone, soon spiraling into the drain into the pipes of depression. She picks at a scab, not sure how to escape when there's no one to fall back on.

11.27.2019
It was dark. And it was snowing. Black eyes hard on a sharp featureless face, her body just as sharp like a blood stained dagger. Her lips are a fine line and her lashes long like individual hairs of a black paintbrush. Family to her wasn't something she looked forward to, the scarlet poppy having no fond memories of the day to be thankful. So she would dig herself a hole and lie there until the day passed and the snow buried her, hiding her from those fake smiles and curious questions of where she was in life. Her answer? Nowhere. She was stuck in time in the same moment, reliving day after day. Her mother had confirmed her worst suspicions by saying she was useless, and it stuck to her like pine tree pitch to a windshield of a vehicle. No amount of scraping would get it off without hurting the glass itself.

So she isolates.
So she worries.
So she wilts.