bloom

I was poured into this world, raw and howling, a whisper of blood and marrow molded by trembling hands. My mother’s breath pressed into my lungs, My father’s shadow stitched into my spine, and still, I wandered half-made, grasping at truths too sharp to hold. Each lesson tore me open, a scalpel to the tender bud of what I was—cutting, slicing, carving me clean. The pain like fire, like thunder beneath my skin, but oh, how I bled light, how I bled rivers that fed the soil. Do not weep for the petals scattered at my feet. They are not lost; they are offerings— to the wind, to the earth, to the fragile hands that once held me. For the rose knows what I now know: to grow is to bleed, to bleed is to bloom, to bloom is to let go. So cut me again, cut me so I can rise sharper, brighter, rooted in the wisdom of my undoing. For beauty is not what remains untouched; it is the fire-fed miracle of what comes next.