She bled like a rose

The night was soft as velvet, and in the air lingered the scent of an unknown flower. The city had fallen asleep, but in one quiet corner, a story had begun to stir. It was the story of a girl named Lalima.

No, Lalima was not an ordinary girl. She walked like poetry itself—her eyes tired with twilight’s hue, and on her lips, the shadow of an unspoken promise. People called her “strange.” Some said she whispered to the stars from her rooftop at night. Others believed she felt no pain—she never cried, never screamed, just remained silently still.

But what they didn’t know was this: she bled like a rose.

The First Encounter

I first saw her in the forgotten corner of an old library, buried in dust and the silence of unread books. I was searching for something—probably a volume of dead poets—when I noticed her, sketching something into a notebook. Red ink stained her fingers. I assumed her pen had leaked.

But her smile—gentle, unsettling—made me pause. She looked up and said, “Do you know? Every thorn on a rose hides a story.”

“A story? In a thorn?” I asked.

She nodded, eyes gleaming. “Yes. Thorns are pain. And pain always writes stories. I just put them on paper.”

Ink or Blood?

It took time before I understood—she didn’t just write. She bled her poems.

Literally.

Her fingers bore tiny scars, her wrists faint traces of pain. Her poetry notebooks were stained—not with ink, but with drops of her own blood. Her verses were not imagined, they were felt, pulled from the veins of her soul and body alike.

Every day, she wrote a new poem. And each poem was born from some hidden ache, etched onto paper with a terrifying kind of beauty.

I once asked, “Do you write when you’re hurt?”

She smiled faintly. “No. I write to feel hurt. Because no one talks about pain anymore. I do.”

She Was the Rose

There was something crimson in her gaze, like the red sky before a storm. Her movements were slow yet magnetic—as if she were tracing a path of quiet bleeding through time. She was, in every way, a rose: beautiful, but sharp. Try to hold her close, and you'd be pricked.

She often said, “Love always leads to bloodshed. If I love someone, they suffer.”

One day, I dared to say, “Then I’m ready to suffer.”

She looked at me, long and wordlessly, then whispered, “You don’t know how I bleed.”

Midnight Poetry

That night, she gave me one of her secret notebooks. I opened it hesitantly. Each page was stained—some with smudged red, others with dried brown blotches. It was unsettling, yet heartbreakingly honest. A kind of beauty you don’t want to admit exists.

One poem read:

"I bleed, not tears—My words are dead, yet they live.I am the rose—my beauty draws ruin. Touch me not. Love me from a distance."

The Last Day

One day, she vanished. Just like that.

Her room was empty. Her rooftop chair stood still. On her writing desk lay her last notebook. Open. Final page.

It read: Today, I am the final rose.Today, I bleed for the last time."

No one knew where she went. No one knew if she had died or simply disappeared into another city, another sky. But the dusty corner of that library still holds her breath. Some say, if you sit there late at night, you can still hear pages turn and verses whisper from the shadows.

She Lives in Words

Years have passed. I’ve become a poet myself. But I’ve never written like she did. My ink has always been black. Hers was red. I write with thought; she wrote with her very being.

She lives on in my every line. Her sorrow, her silence, her quiet bleeding—they walk beside my pen.

She bled like a rose—

Silently, slowly,

But deeply.