“Bloomed Before You Blossomed”
by Adena M’lynn
a rare flower,
carrying the wisdom of a woman
long before the world called you grown.
They saw petals,
but I saw roots—
roots that reached down past centuries,
drinking from rivers your feet had never touched,
pulling in stories your mouth had never spoken,
but your heart already knew.
You were ten
and you held your chin like the sky owed you answers.
You walked through rooms
as if you’d been there before,
as if every chair knew the weight of your body,
as if every clock
ticked to the rhythm of your pulse.
You bloomed too early,
but not because the sun loved you more—
because life bent down,
shoved the soil from your shoulders,
and whispered, grow.
You learned to read between the sighs of grown-ups,
to carry the weight of what wasn’t said,
to hold the world steady
when your own knees were shaking.
Bloomed before you blossomed,
you learned that beauty can come
even when it’s dragged out of the dark.
That sometimes petals open
not in spring,
but in the dead of winter,
when no one expects them to survive.
And still—
you are here.
You are living proof
that even if you bloom before you blossom,
you can still learn the joy of unfolding,
one soft, unhurried petal at a time.
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