The Poison Flower

Pleasure and pain.
Pain that causes pleasure.
Taking pleasure in the pain of someone else.
How could that ever be?
Was it a way of curing your own pain?
Or did you just want to inflict suffering on someone because you could?
Why did you ever choose to reproduce?
Was it a way to trap a man who you knew was flighty?
Or was it, like many of your decisions, a moments fleeting idea of something you wanted and had to have, only to be bored with it shortly after?
Only this time it was lasting. There was nothing you could do to leave it behind, deny it’s existence, pretend that part of your life had not occurred once you were finished with it.
And the man was still flighty, the trap you set didn’t work.
Maybe I find myself fascinated by butterflies because of him.
He has been described as one to me, as someone who flits from flower to flower.
I wonder if he felt your poison when he landed on the flower that was you.
Perhaps it seeped into his veins and he reacted quickly enough to fly free.
Others have not been so lucky, they find themselves glued to the petals as you twine your stem around them, eventually suffocating them with your leaves.
They know it is not right, that this intoxicating scent is poisonous, but it is too late, they have already got trapped and only you can set them free.
You shed your petals, grow new ones of an entirely different colour whenever you choose. A chameleon plant.
But the roots that bare the plant remain the same, you cannot destroy and change those without dying entirely.
There are so few of us who know how rotten these roots are.