Her skin is fine as porcelain, traced with the fractures of memory — quiet, unapologetic. From one crack, a red flower escapes her lips like a confession never spoken aloud. In stillness, she blooms — not in spite of breaking, but because of it.
Her skin is fine as porcelain, traced with the fractures of memory — quiet, unapologetic. From one crack, a red flower escapes her lips like a confession never spoken aloud. In stillness, she blooms — not in spite of breaking, but because of it.