𝚆𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛

I stood where the paint peeled,

where the wallpaper curled like tired petals -

half-bloomed, half-forgotten.

I wasn’t the music,

I was the pause between the chorus and applause.

A maybe. A hush.

*

They danced in golden circles,

laughter loud as thunder's clap,

feet drunk with now.

And me?

I learned to love the outline of things.

Edges.

Shadows.

The in-between light that doesn’t ask you to smile.

*

It’s not that I didn’t want to be seen -

it’s just

visibility feels like a blade

when your thoughts are made of paper.

So I sat in corners

and wrote sonnets on napkins,

tucked meanings between sugar packets and sighs.

Truth:

Not everyone blooms loud.

Some of us vine quietly up the walls,

roots deep in silence,

petals turned inward like prayers.

*

I’ve watched time like a stranger watches a train -

knowing it’s not stopping,

but admiring the blur.

And maybe

that’s not loss.

Maybe

being on the edge of things

lets you see the whole pattern -

the dance and the silence,

the fire and the ash.

*

They call us wallflowers,

like we’re decoration.

But flowers don’t ask for attention -

they grow anyway.

We grow anyway.

In dust or spotlight.

In applause or quiet.

We are still growing.

*

Even in the corners.

Especially there.

---

Note:

Carrying on with my ‘sunshine gold was her soul’ bundle, hope you enjoy