It was never a necklace that I wore—
but a bruise in cursive, spelled out by teeth,
a coerced surrender, etched in violet.
Often, flowers bend toward the sun—
not from longing,
but because they have no choice.
And like a flower’s petal,
each refusal fell—
until none were left to fall.
Not all blooming is voluntary you see,
some unfurl only to escape the dark.
Jun 19, 2025
Jun 19, 2025 at 7:56 AM UTC
It was never a necklace that I wore—
but a bruise in cursive, spelled out by teeth,
a coerced surrender, etched in violet.
Often, flowers bend toward the sun—
not from longing,
but because they have no choice.
And like a flower’s petal,
each refusal fell—
until none were left to fall.
Not all blooming is voluntary you see,
some unfurl only to escape the dark.
I'm going crazy, something is off about this poem and I can't tell what
Request permission to use this poem