Rose Growing From Wounds

I learned how to love from the way you bled without screaming. Those roses were never born from soil they rose from veins, from touches held too long, from words swallowed instead of spoken. Your mouth tastes of crimson silence, your fingers memorize pain like prayer. Beauty clings to you the way blood clings to skin uninvited, unapologetic. You are not broken. You are blooming in places the world never meant to touch.