They would mistake it for a tragedy.
They would stand beneath the cracked sky, count the lightning, trace the chains around my heart, and believe the darkness was the whole story.
But museums are built for those who linger.
So stay.
Look closer.
The woman with her eyes closed is not sleeping.
She is listening to the ghosts she refused to let become gods.
The doorway inside her mind does not promise escape.
It asks for courage.
Every step is carved from grief, every flower watered by tears no one witnessed, every vine grown through wounds the world insisted should have killed her.
Still…
She blooms.
The storm watches from the edge of the canvas.
It wears familiar faces.
Broken promises.
Love that arrived with empty hands.
Words sharp enough to become hauntings.
It still calls her name.
She no longer answers.
At her feet sit four children—
the heartbeat beneath the silence.
One dreams.
One laughs.
Two have only just begun to discover the world.
They do not know how many monsters their mother swallowed before kissing their foreheads goodnight.
May they never have to.
Beside them rests a cup gone cold.
A journal heavy with prayers never spoken aloud.
Books bound not in leather, but survival—
Boundaries.
Self-Worth.
Healing.
Faith.
Each chapter written with shaking hands beneath moonlight instead of applause.
The chained heart remains inside the frame.
Not because forgiveness never came.
But because some doors are meant to stay locked.
Some ghosts deserve no second home.
At the bottom of the painting, a lone figure faces the dying sun.
She does not chase it.
She knows even darkness cannot stop morning from returning.
And beneath the frame, where only those who kneel to read will ever notice, a tarnished plaque whispers—
A Work in Progress.
Not unfinished.
Not broken.
Simply surviving long enough
to become
the haunted cathedral
she once spent her whole life searching for.
Between Bruises & Blooms 
Leave a comment