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.

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.