Blooming Ink

She sat still in the concrete cold,
deep secrets hushed whispers so bold.
Left arm exposed beneath her sleeve,
a scarlet script that would not leave:
bold “Love yourself, not me” it read,
a tender phrase the ink had bled.

Before her rest, on stone so grey,
a clutch of blooms in soft display.
Burnt orange petals, bright and thin,
fragile flames provoke inner grins.
They relaxed near the edge with grace,
as twilight kissed her shadowed face.

Behind her blurred, the city climbed,
towers stood tall and streets aligned.
A thousand windows shimmered hues,
but none could frame a clearer view,
the flowers smiled at words she wore,
a quiet heart that wanted more.

The wind would tug her unkept hair,
but still she sat, untouched by care.
Her gaze was calm, each exhale slow,
as if she knew how to let go.
Warm feelings paint a love that stays,
separates truths from trauma’s haze.

And as the evening veiled the sky,
her crimson ink refused to lie.
She traced each line with new insight,
a vow to leave, but not to fight.
Love in herself would set her free,
to not be bound by memories.

– Grace Y. Estevez – Reddy

Response to Sadje’s picture prompt on What Do You See # 288 May 12, 2025

This weeks prompt offered two picture options. This poem was inspired by both pictures. 💕