She births them with noble purposes:
you are designed to protect.
Her
babies protrude from the epidermis, spread until the
surface is more prickly outgrowth than sweetness.
What she doesn't mention is how her children curve down, hooks waiting to sink into neighboring plants, monopolize sunlight, starve out the
others.
Don't grow up too pretty, she tells them, an over-concerned mother whose uterus only
expels the ugly.
Don't grow pretty.
They house fungi, sporotrichosis, a last line of defense, because she will not be there to protect them.
She has never been there to protect them.