As the blossoms would cherish a pretty smile — I keep offering
the softest parts of me, hoping someone will notice the bloom,
not the trembling stem beneath it. I start plucking away the petals
of myself; turning my own hands into the gardeners who decide
which version of me should survive.
And every time I pull a part of me off, I whisper a blessing
and a burial — change this, hide that, soften here, don’t show
too much there. It’s strange how becoming better can feel so
much like becoming less.
I stand in the mirror repeating the ritual:
“I love this version… I love not this version of me.”
Both truths hold me, both truths undo me.
Some days I bloom. Other days I collect
the petals I’ve torn off and try to remember
what I looked like before I started editing
myself into someone else’s
_favourite flower._
Nov 25, 2025
Nov 25, 2025 at 4:00 PM UTC
As the blossoms would cherish a pretty smile — I keep offering
the softest parts of me, hoping someone will notice the bloom,
not the trembling stem beneath it. I start plucking away the petals
of myself; turning my own hands into the gardeners who decide
which version of me should survive.
And every time I pull a part of me off, I whisper a blessing
and a burial — change this, hide that, soften here, don’t show
too much there. It’s strange how becoming better can feel so
much like becoming less.
I stand in the mirror repeating the ritual:
“I love this version… I love not this version of me.”
Both truths hold me, both truths undo me.
Some days I bloom. Other days I collect
the petals I’ve torn off and try to remember
what I looked like before I started editing
myself into someone else’s
_favourite flower._
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