Flowers That Grow From Scars

They never saw the nights I bled

In silence—

Holding my breath

So no one would hear

The way my heart cracked

Under a whisper.

They say,

"You’re so strong.”

But strength is not born

From choice—

It grows like weeds

In places no light ever touches.

I stitched my own wounds

With shaky fingers,

Threaded with shame and silence.

No bandage.

No applause.

Just me, and the ache

Of staying alive

When it would've been easier not to.

You ask,

"Why do you always smile?"

Because no one wants the truth—

That sometimes,

Smiles are fences

To keep the flood inside.

But I bloomed anyway.

Not pretty like a painting—

But wild, defiant, real.

Flowers

That grew from scars

Don’t need to be perfect—

They just need to be proof.

Proof that pain
Is not the end.

That healing

Is not always beautiful.

That some gardens

Grow from ashes,

And still—

They rise.