Poetry: The Woman in the Flowers

Poetry by Tiffany Arriagada

She is not hiding.
She is soft thunder,
a bloom on the edge of rot.

Eyes closed—not for dreaming—
but to mute the noise of being
told how to be.

Petals rise like secrets around her,
wet with memory,
heavy with scent.
Not roses for romance,
but for grief.
For the funeral of who she once pretended to be.

She does not bloom for you.
She wilts with intention.
With poetry.
With rage tucked beneath her ribs like thorns.

Here in this stillness—
this dusky, flower-laced hush—
she unravels gently.
She becomes myth.

A woman made of hush and hunger.
A shrine of quiet undoing.

This is not her end.
It is her gathering.