The Flowers I Grew Anyways

They told me

nothing good could grow here,

not from this kind of soil,

not after that kind of storm.

But they didn’t know

how often I’ve whispered to the dirt: “Just one more try.”

They didn’t know

how many nights I wept

into silence,

and still woke up with enough hope to water something.

No one saw the seeds I buried while I was breaking.

They don’t understand

what it took to become soft again

after everything tried to make me hard.

The garden I tend

doesn't look like much

to those who only value the tidy and trimmed,

but I know what it’s made of.

I know

that the roots were born in grief.

I know

the petals carry my pain like perfume.

These flowers?

They grew in ash,

they grew in drought,

they grew even when I didn’t think I would.

So perhaps,

I bloomed

not because I was unbroken,

but because I refused to stay buried.