Her mouth is open — not in fear, but in revelation. The flowers don’t silence her; they erupt from her like prophecy. Across her skin, cracks bloom into voice. She’s not marble, not forgotten — she’s blooming in defiance, speaking through roots.
Her mouth is open — not in fear, but in revelation. The flowers don’t silence her; they erupt from her like prophecy. Across her skin, cracks bloom into voice. She’s not marble, not forgotten — she’s blooming in defiance, speaking through roots.