A ribcage cradling a crimson core,
roses bloom from it—
all thorns, no budding,
roots reaching downward, never finding soil,
wrapped around a warping spine,
stems constricting, coiled.
Planted from an absence
that was never really felt,
seeded in the center,
the only place that held.
Slowly growing inward,
petals never formed,
withering in fragments,
silently ignored.
Blight begins to take hold,
roots twisting through bone,
the spine no longer warping,
but stilled into stone.
—the crimson core still cradled,
unchanged, alone.
Mar 27
Mar 27, 2026 at 3:58 PM UTC
A ribcage cradling a crimson core,
roses bloom from it—
all thorns, no budding,
roots reaching downward, never finding soil,
wrapped around a warping spine,
stems constricting, coiled.
Planted from an absence
that was never really felt,
seeded in the center,
the only place that held.
Slowly growing inward,
petals never formed,
withering in fragments,
silently ignored.
Blight begins to take hold,
roots twisting through bone,
the spine no longer warping,
but stilled into stone.
—the crimson core still cradled,
unchanged, alone.
