She still stands under wilted branches casting cherry blossoms to rotted earth.
Self-hate was sewn into her heart.
She doesn’t know how loving herself is supposed to feel.
Bury her in cherry blossoms and sorrow.
She holds hope in cut palms, trying to peek through the veil to see her future.
Chaos always comes with a price.
She stands still under bleeding branches forsaking prayers made to silky slivers of silver dripping between the trees.
She is learning to weave compassion out of learned self-hatred.
What if she learns to love herself for the times she’s survived?
What if she learns lost love transmutes to light to warm us when winter’s dark blankets our spirit?
What if none of it was her fault?
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish
Comment on this Bubble
Your comment and a link to this bubble will also appear in your Facebook feed.