Between Bruises & Blooms

No one celebrates the moment a branch breaks.

They mourn the crack.

The empty place where something living used to reach toward the light.

But forests know a secret people forget.

Decay is only another language for beginning.

The fallen tree becomes shelter.

The shattered earth collects rain.

Even ashes remember how to feed a seed.

So I stopped asking why my heart looked like winter.

I stopped counting the doors that closed without goodbye.

Instead,

I knelt beside my own bruises.

Pressed my hands into the aching soil.

Waited.

Not for someone to come back—

but for something inside me to wake.

And one quiet night,

when the world believed nothing beautiful could possibly grow from this much grief,

I felt it.

A single bloom opening where the wound used to be.

Not bright enough for daylight.

Not loud enough for applause.

Only brave enough to perfume the darkness.

Some flowers were never meant for the sun.

They were born to prove

that even night can become a garden.