Bloom

Blooming used to mean
arriving whole,
unscarred,
on time.
Now I know better.
I have bloomed in fragments,
in pauses,
in seasons where nothing looked alive
from the outside.
Blooming was learning to stay
when leaving felt easier.
It was truth pushing through grief,
roots gripping even scorched soil.
Some blooms are loud.
Others are stubborn.
Some bloom only once the frost has passed
through the bones.
This year, I bloom without apology.
Not to be admired—
but because I survived long enough
to open.
And that
is more than enough.

💫Maggie

The Afterlove Voice 💫