The whiteness and blackness of my mind: Before the flower blooms

She is a woman who has hidden nothing; she has simply learned not to speak the truth aloud.

On her face, the passing of the night leaves its trace; in her complexion, the winds of years gone by; and in the flowers that have bloomed from her body, the secret of things that are never seen but are born in words.

Perhaps no one knows how many dreams have withered in her silence, or how many times she has gathered herself together and stood tall once more.

Yet something within her remains alive— something small, defiant, and red, like the final spark of a fire hidden beneath the ash.

She has not been saved; she has rebuilt herself.

And amidst all she has lost, she has held onto only one thing:

Blooming again