Blooming Is Not The Same As Growing

I never meant to bloom for everyone.
Some hands are shadows.
Some skies are cold.
Some days stretch too far without
offering anything back.

I have curled inward in silence.
I have held my colour close,
my petals tight—
because to open is to believe.
In warmth.
In gentleness.
In the sun.

I bend toward love the way
flowers do,
not out of weakness
but instinct.

The ache to be seen
is as natural
as the turning of leaves
or the rising of tides.

When the right hands came,
I didn’t bloom—
I returned
to the self I had always been.
A little soft.
A little wild.
Completely,
unapologetically
alive.