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.