Confessions from the Most Beautiful Bloom

They describe me as gorgeous.

The kind of beauty that alters the atmosphere in the room, not merely in passing, not as a glib compliment. When I unfurl, people notice. They stare. They envy. They resent.

There is no other quite like me. Late to bloom, perhaps—but when I did? A detonation of life. Color. Spectacle. I made it clear that I would not be there. Moreover, I now tower. Not in height, but in presence. Others attempt to imitate my vibrancy, but they succumb to me. Their attempts, pitiful. Their envy, obvious.

They call it arrogance. No—it’s clarity.

Hubris is just maintenance for those who bloom this brightly. It’s the awareness of one’s light. Others craft shadows and call it shade. I know better. Shade isn’t shelter—it’s silence. It’s attrition. It is the slow creep of irrelevance.

Surrounded by weeds masquerading as equals, I see through them. They call themselves ground cover, but I know—they wait. For me to falter. For my colors to fade. For my roots to loosen.

And yet I rise.

Why grow, then? Whom exactly? For what? Sharing soil with those who fight for moisture they can’t even savor. They don’t live—they endure.

A buzz breaks the air. The bees go around. Curious. Hungry.

“Don’t,” I whisper. “Buzz off.”

Even pollinators are opportunists. Parasites with wings.

From the edge of the pot, a voice slithers in.

“You’re all in the same dirt,” the worm reminds me. "And we eventually compost everything." I don’t answer at first.

The petals tighten. The stem leans in. I lift my head just enough to catch the last flicker of sunlight.

And then I smile—faint, defiant.

“Maybe,” I say. “But not today.”