
Where Wildflowers Bloom
She wasn’t planted with care or design,
No hand chose this patch of ground.
She rose through the rubble, cracked and dry,
Where silence was the loudest sound.
They called her a weed—unwanted, wild,
Too tangled to be tame.
But they never saw the quiet work
It took to bloom from pain.
Each petal carries pieces of
The wounds she used to bear,
Each leaf a scar that learned to green
From long-forgotten care.
The rain did not arrive with grace—
It thundered through her chest.
But even storms can wash the soul,
And give a seed its rest.
She healed in secret, slow and sure,
While no one thought she could.
She found a kind of rooted peace
That gardens never would.
Now she blooms in colors strange,
Too bright for some to see.
But she is proof that healing grows
Where wild things choose to be.
The Return
I left with nothing but silence.
The kind that echoes in an empty house in a storm,
after screaming winds and crying clouds have gone.
Leaving broken doors and cracked windows,
the last, cruelest, final goodbye.
I always thought love meant molding myself to fit inside someone’s idea of me,
but I outgrew the corners of your love.
Where your words yearned to keep me small-
shackled in your toxic embrace and desolate castle.
I danced barefoot through the ruins, across jagged stones and shattered glass,
aching with the weight of the love I gave you…
Softly,
like a fresh breath through dew soaked morning leaves,
she called to me, beckoning me back:
the girl I lost, buried beneath all of my ‘I’m sorries’ , the almosts, the excuses.
She didn’t ask where I’d been, only opened her arms and showed me that I was already whole.
She whispered the softest reminders,
no vows, no promises, no chains-
only the burning, raging silence, a quiet sonnet
that I am enough
and I always was
Now when I speak of love,
I speak of her.
When I speak of home,
I speak of coming home to her.
To myself.