Whispers Among Thorns
Beneath the carnival of colors that dance across my skin, there is a story, one that blooms and wilts within the silent confines of my being. I am the child of the forgotten garden, where the flowers are vibrant echoes of my whispered dreams and streaming sorrows.
I remember when the world was a canvas of endless blue, and I, a curious creature, wide-eyed and wonder-filled. But the skies dimmed, and the flowers began to bleed their color onto me, marking me with the hues of lost innocence and silent cries for solace.
They say eyes are windows to the soul, and mine hold the reflections of a thousand untold tales. Tales of laughter that turned to echoes, of gentle hands that turned away, leaving only the chill of absence. My irises, once mirrors of the sky, now hold the depth of the ocean, and in them, the tides ebb and flow with secrets I dare not speak.
Here in this place, where the flowers weep with me, my hands become my shelter. They cover my words, they shield my whispers. In their embrace, I find the strength to face another day, another hour, another moment in the silence of my sanctuary.
Yet, even as the colors drip and the flowers sigh, I feel a stir within—a resilient bloom in the midst of thorns. A voice that refuses to be stilled, a spirit that thrives despite the shadows. My story is not one of mere survival, but of a quiet revolution, a reclaiming of the self that was once left adrift.
I am the keeper of the garden, the silent sentinel of my own tale. And one day, the hands that now hide and protect will unfold, not in defeat, but in triumph. For every petal that falls is a reminder, every color that fades tells me that even in a world that may not listen, my voice, my truth, still matters. And so, I stand amidst the melting hues, a testament to the beauty that can be found, even in the heart of isolation.