It grew out of the side of his head.
It had started as an itch that grew and grew until it was unbearable.
HE scratched himself raw and swollen, and in his sleep a bud broke through his skin.
The itching never went away, but over time he learned to ignore it.
He had to change jobs, began working at a Montessori preschool, because no one found it that odd that he wore a flower in his hair.
But the stem grew out, and he had no insurance.
He tried to cut it, but he felt it's flesh like his own, and it hurt to much to remove it.
The stem grew until the flower peaked out from his head a foot above him, stiff in the wind.
It would turn to find the sun. He took to walking for hours in the park, to alleviate the ache of it's hunger.
He met a girl in the end with flowers growing from her body, and they grew rather fond of each other, but could never consummate their relationship, due to the fear of crushing her flora, and the pain it would bring her.
One day he gave up, laid down in the freshly turned dirt, and left himself to the weather. The doctors had told him it was too late.
If he had come sooner before the roots had buried in his brainpan, they may have been able to remove it via a costly experimental surgery.
But he had missed his opportunity, and instead accepted his fate, tucked himself into the humus of the forest floor, and waited to decompose.
The flower lived on long after him, and was eaten one day by a bear.