Petals unfurl like whispered promises,
soft in the morning hush-
but beneath, the thorns remember
what the flower chooses to forget.

Beauty leans toward the sun
as if light alone could sustain it,
yet the roots sip from shadow,
drawing life from the silence below.

A hand reaches-
not for the stem,but the idea of it,
the illusion of untouched grace.
It bleeds nonetheless.

What grows lovely does not grow alone.
Every softness carries its edge,
every scent a buried ache,
every bloom,a quiet price.