Cruel Cronos engraved me early,
not with gentleness,
but by hands of shadows
who mistook my springtime figure
for silence,
who thought my tears
were seeds easily buried.
I was a sanctuary of lilies,
crushed before the bloom,
a jasmine bruised by shadows,
an innocent violet forced into stone.
Their voices were storms,
their laughter—chains of iron,
and I, too petite to fight,
learned the language of fear.
Yet within me, a sunflower spark—
refusing to give up its soul,
rooted itself deeper,
drinking light even from darkness,
whispering: you are more than their hands,
you are more than their cruelty.
So I rose, piece by piece,
a wounded Rose of Venus,
crowned not by shame,
but by the fire of endurance.
Where they carved burning scars,
I carved flourishing constellations.
Where they plucked petals,
I grew wings of lavender and flame.
Now my voice is the garden restored:
not silent,
not broken,
but alive—
a testament that innocence stolen
is not innocence lost,
that even from the deepest, darkest wound,
a sunflower can rise
and teach the world
what it means
to see, to feel,
and yet not become a shadow itself.
Oct 25, 2025
Oct 25, 2025 at 7:37 AM UTC
Cruel Cronos engraved me early,
not with gentleness,
but by hands of shadows
who mistook my springtime figure
for silence,
who thought my tears
were seeds easily buried.
I was a sanctuary of lilies,
crushed before the bloom,
a jasmine bruised by shadows,
an innocent violet forced into stone.
Their voices were storms,
their laughter—chains of iron,
and I, too petite to fight,
learned the language of fear.
Yet within me, a sunflower spark—
refusing to give up its soul,
rooted itself deeper,
drinking light even from darkness,
whispering: you are more than their hands,
you are more than their cruelty.
So I rose, piece by piece,
a wounded Rose of Venus,
crowned not by shame,
but by the fire of endurance.
Where they carved burning scars,
I carved flourishing constellations.
Where they plucked petals,
I grew wings of lavender and flame.
Now my voice is the garden restored:
not silent,
not broken,
but alive—
a testament that innocence stolen
is not innocence lost,
that even from the deepest, darkest wound,
a sunflower can rise
and teach the world
what it means
to see, to feel,
and yet not become a shadow itself.