The Flowers of my Chest

I dreamed of flowers with a hundred shades of red,
So beautiful, fragrance so sweet.
If only they lay upon my breast,
Instead, they grew from a once human chest,
Skin soft, still untouched by times heavy burden.
Emerging, they made me alien.
Panic gripped!
And I ripped the flowers from by body.
A faint friction,
Popping – no sound emitted
Heavily breathing, my shaking fingers touched,
Red moss was left.
Spongey and alarming!
My nails raked though,
Leaving red underneath, but no blood.
In the mirror the features of my face are the same,
However, contorted in horror.
My eyes see my breast is read moss and paludal alveoli.
And already striplings peeking through.
What have I become?

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