My Muse: She Who Blooms At Midnight

She learned to grow where the light was scarce, where silence stayed longer than words.

At midnight, when the world loosens its grip, she opens.

Petals trace her veins, soft but unafraid. Every bloom remembers a becoming.

She is not made to be seen — only felt, like the moon breathing through skin.

'I paint the parts of myself that only exist at night.'