This makes no sense.

She drew a flower,
black as death,
from the graphite
of her stubby yellow pencil

She embellished the thing,
added to it every detail she knew,
creepers and twirling thorns
and bulbs and snarling leaves;
a child of the crevasses of her own mind,
a monstrosity.

It grew,
from morning,
it's branches reached farther
over the mildewed wallpaper,
wearing the pencil down.
sinuously,
buds and prickly nettles bloomed
till it was night
and the candles sputtered to their ends.

It crept through
the walls,
it sneaked through the cracks
in the windows,
the despair,
and darkened the little flower
day after day.
And one morning
it was venomous.