I told the truth once—
but only in the language of bluebells.
And no one I love speaks that tongue.

They bloom in the shape of wounds,
soft and bell-shaped,
as if penance could ever be this lovely.

Each season, I return to the grove.
Barefoot.
Ash-throated.
Carrying the lie like a buried relic—
not evil, but sacred.
Not for deceit,
but for survival.

The flowers tilt toward me,
a thousand lowered heads.
Their perfume—guilt made sweet—
clings like the memory of hands
I would not let touch me true.

I have built entire cathedrals
from the parts of myself I refuse to show.
Cathedrals without doors.
And when they knock—oh, they knock—
I offer stained glass,
never the altar.

There is thunder beneath my skin.
But I laugh like a sunbeam.
Speak like a mirror.
And they love the surface I keep polished.

But bluebells grow in shadows.
They know me.
They bloom where I’ve split.

I dream of telling you—
but the words come out as smoke,
as soil,
as the ghost of a name
I’ve only ever whispered to the wind.

And so I leave it.
Every truth I couldn’t say
a root twisting deeper.
Every version of me you never met—
ringing softly in the grove,
calling me
a coward
in the kindest, sweetest voice.