Exsanguination

Butterflies cling stiffly to brown branches, their wings so white they are like crystal, clear as glass. The spiky blooms crackle beneath her touch, cold as quicksilver, smelling desolate and slightly like wisteria. Butterflies erupt in a flurry of transparent wings from the sanguinary plant; it looks empty, listless and dreamlike. A bead of blood glistens on her finger, scarlet as a pomegranate seed.

Text by Lucie MacAulay