ViOLET

She wasn’t a rose—

no, never that soft kind of pretty.

She was violet:

quiet, dusk-colored defiance

growing from the cracks

where light forgot to look.

She didn’t bloom for anyone.

She bloomed despite them.

A whisper of bruised sky

in a world that only noticed

what screamed in red.

Her laughter didn’t ring out—

it lingered like rain

on windows that no one wiped clean,

and her sadness,

when it came,

was the kind that didn’t ask for attention—

it just sat beside you,

like an old friend

with trembling hands.

They called her delicate,

but that was just their word

for what they couldn’t bend.

Inside her—

a storm dressed in lavender.

Rage wrapped in grace.

A whole garden

of wilt and wild

that kept growing back

no matter how many times

the world clipped her roots.

And in love—

she loved like dusk falling slowly—

not flashy, not loud,

but inevitable.

The kind of love that doesn’t beg

to be noticed—

it just stays

long after you’ve forgotten

what morning ever felt like.

She is violet.

Not for the flower.

Not for the color.

But for the feeling you can’t name

when you see beauty

and ache

at the same time.