As Rose Petals Fall
For years,
I could name
every corner
of the garden.
Which flowers
had been there.
Which ones
had withered.
Where the thorns
had drawn blood.
Who had planted
what.
Who had stayed.
Who had left.
I knew
the story
by heart.
But the more
I remembered,
the less
I needed
to explain.
The roots
were enough.
The soil
knew.
The seasons
knew.
Even the scars
along the stem
knew.
And still—
I had flowers
no one had seen.
Thorns
no one had touched.
A fragrance
that belonged
to no story
but mine.
And then—
I let the petals fall.
One.
Then another.
The old stories
loosening
from the stem.
The names
that were never mine.
The seasons
I had spent
trying to remember
who I was
inside them.
Down they fell—
softly,
without argument,
without asking
to be gathered again.
And the rose
did not ask
who had written
its history.
It simply
opened—
not for them,
not against them,
but beneath
its own sky.
Rooted.
Unhidden.
Mine.