She blooms like a secret that will not stay buried –
standing tall, a blood-red flare against the soft hue of green,
a whisper and a warning, all in the same breath.
Petals of silk torn from a sacred gown,
crease-folded and fluttering with history,
she rises – not shy, not sorry, not hidden.
She knows who she is.
She is not the garden’s sweet child.
She is the memory of the wild.
The ache in the beauty.
The medicine and the myth.
They say her name like a scandal:
Opium.
As though her presence invites sin,
as though her roots drink only darkness.
But she knows better.
She is older than shame.
Older than control.
Older than the idea that a woman must shrink to be safe.
Her heart seems black—yes.
A deep core of shadowed truth.
But her light is blinding.
She does not apologise for being too much.
She does not tone herself down for others comfort,
those who may not approve.
She is here, vivid and vital and full of knowing.
And when the wind moves through her,
you’d swear it was a song;
not just for you,
but for every woman who ever bloomed fiercely,
and was told she should be tame.
“May you bloom without apology, and let no one dim your colour.”