She couldn’t find peace, no matter how hard she tried. Each time she touched her body, the world around her gave it a name. Even since she was young—those first touches, tentative, searching. The first naked glances in the mirror. Her eyes would wander down her neck, then to her chest, and lower, to her belly. It was the slipping away of childhood that made her explore her smooth, unmarked skin. And there she was—alone, naked, exposed. Until she looked up. And that endless circle that had trapped her for years finally stopped looking elsewhere. It was as if a light had poured over her, and suddenly every gaze turned to her.

He was the first. With a tiny nail, he pinned the first label between her breasts—the label that birthed fear. Such a small nail, and yet it sparked a pain that would only grow from that moment on—like a child swelling inside her.

“It’s worth wondering how we manage, over time, to carry such volumes of fear and pain—crafted by others, carried by us.”

Time passed, and the nails multiplied—driven in by foreign hands. And the words became sentences, carved into her. That once untouched body now stood veiled in titles. A thousand words not her own left her mute. It was as if everything had already been said. Her eyes stopped roaming, stopped exploring. Pinned to the floor, they had accepted their fate. No more tears for every nail—like they had dried out. Like all sensation had disappeared. Nothing remained exposed—everything was now covered.

Once, long ago, when she was still a child, she’d heard a fairy tale. A tale of a spring unlike the others. A spring where everything blossoms, expands, and places itself gently around and within us—with such beauty that no hand dares to touch. Sometimes, she’d whisper that story to herself, to her belly—where fear was growing inside her, cradled deep like a lullaby. And if she waited for anything, it was for that spring. The one where her feet would finally lift from the floor, where she would take her first hesitant steps.

But time passed.And she stopped whispering. She stopped waiting. She forgot the spring. And the fairytale crumbled under the weight of her waking nightmare. The nails lined up, one after the other. Words, then sentences, hung from her skin, wrapped her whole.

And then came a moment—unlike any before it—when a pair of hands, holding yet another nail, found no place left to pierce. No word left unsaid. It was as if their work was done. And just like that, the light that once bathed her faded. The gazes turned away. And she was left alone again—pinned, wounded, bloodied, mute—in her darkness. In a silence like death. And from the core of that silence, a primal scream rose—long and torn, making every spine shiver.

Right before their wide, watching eyes, her body collapsed.

She dropped to her knees and lay on the floor. Tears slid from her eyes, down her neck, across her chest— right where the first nail had sunk in, right where fear had first taken root. It was time now—to be born.

Her thighs opened, and from within her, fear emerged. A faint cry—like someone exhaling their last breath. It was fear, dying before her. And as it died, the nails and the words rained down, falling to the floor. Her body began to expand. Her wounds started to heal. The world around her bloomed— and so did she, from within.

In the very moment fear died, she felt pleasure—for the first time. And then, she felt her blood coursing through her veins. The light no longer weighed on her like judgment. It touched her like a caress. The body once wrapped in words now rose in color: deep red, ochre, emerald. She could see her hands clearly. Her flesh—hers again. Everything called her to live. The earth beneath her feet softened.

The spring she once heard about in a child’s story had been waiting. It vomited out the rot of the world and raised her into rapture. The spring she had forgotten, now came from inside her— and made her body bloom.

Text editing: Eirini Abatzi

Based on the work: REVERIE

“The quiet bloom of Her body”

By Danae Kavoura

Arthina 2025