Hopeful Sprouting Bud

Broken glass, shattered everywhere. But when it shattered it didn't sound like glass.. it sounded like a thump. The sound of an abused swallow, accentuated and blasted through heavy speakers facing down at the earth; a thump, a bass drop. That was the sound of life for Apricot; she was her own worst enemy, a victim and a predator to herself. She was the perfect person to get to, because she knew her own weakness'.
Once upon a time Apricot, like her name suggests, was full of colour. She was bright and round and plump in personality, she had a rock-hard core that kept her perky pink cheeks smiling even in the lowest of slums. But recently, slums had become poverty.
Nice scents were now, just scents; nothing was ever quite nice enough to sniff as it were before. Her eyesight was as if it had been scrubbed with ocean salt and sand; everything was foggy, a grey wash tinged by the blinding sunlight beaming through shards of seaweed. Yet, nothing felt as full on as blinding sunlight, shards of seaweed and the ocean salt and sand. Nothing felt as real or as good, as brilliant as what she had once known, it was all as if it were a dream. A dream Apricot wanted to drink away, run away from or simply fall into and get lost in the murky water out at sea, not quite knowing which way was up, left or right. All she now knows is down, down, down and down. Waiting, for the final drop where her thick skin finally peals off, where the ravens and possums finally claw into her flesh and rip out the last bit of that rock-hard seed they tried to so hard to pull out.
That way, she can go up, so she can loose her breath to the point she begins to float, up and up to the waters edge, away from seaweed and salt and sand, but into the blowing air and blue sky, with little gems up above her that would guide her way home above the gushing waves, so she could cough and splutter upon the shores edge and tumble out of her rotting self, into a sprouting bud again.
But the girl knew nothing else to do but pretend to smile, do her chores and play a game that she had been taught all her life but mostly ignored. She had never worn make up, it didn't suit her skin, it covered up all the good parts about her. She stopped colouring her hair, because it hid the magical colours that grew out of her head. She didn't like to wear heals because it made it hard for her to move and express the way she truly felt. She didn't like to paint her nails because it made her feel like she was in a movie, not an animal, and she didn't like to lose touch with nature and her primal instincts. She didn't like to eat with knifes and forks because it removed the satisfaction of feeling, and smelling her food. But these were all the things everybody else liked and liked doing, all the things that made her a good nominee for being forever lonely, forever being compared to her cherry of a sister. As a woman, what did intelligence get you? Not as much as good looks. Good looks are primal to a man, intelligence is a simply a bonus.
But because Apricot was so alienated from and alienating to the world, she became her own worst enemy, allergic to herself.