14/02/2026
๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ฒ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ | Literary
Written and Illustrated by Bespectacled
Does a flower need permission to grow?
Is one aware of when it will grow?
Why did it grow?
Was it supposed to?
She asked herself in numbers too tedious to count or remember. The roots have been gnawing on her ribs for god knows how long, their veins twisting around the crevices of her chest, it clawed like a hungry beastโnot for food but only for shelter. It aches in a way that evicts air from her lungs yet squeezes her heart with a pressure that can be mistaken for an embrace.
It had started to maul up to her throat and inched its way out of her lips, the tip of the bud presented itself like a trophyโit exists. It made it. It was earned, though not every feat is required to be flauntedโspecially those that were won due to improbability. A win has the necessity to be planned and carefully preparedโbut this was not. Her jaw started to throb as she tried desperately to force her mouth shut. A trophy has the obligation to be paraded with glory, not shame. Though, her resistance was mistaken with triumph because the petals resembled gold. It speaks for itself on the tip of her mouthโI have bloomed.
She choked, she scratched her throat in hopes to ease the swelling, the roots didn't stop tangling and it stopped her voice from escaping. She was uncertain what to doโhow can she when she wasn't even aware of it growing inside of her?
She knew thoughโdeep down. A small part of her was painfully aware of the twists that were pooling inside of her. Ignorance was the most appropriate choice for something that was unprecedented, and denial was a small pleasure she could grant herself amidst her misguided sentimentsโin hopes that maybe if she disregards the roots, the flower won't be able to grow.
He had planted itโunknowingly so.
An innocent accident. Would he still be at fault for planting the flowers when he wasn't aware he was holding one in the first place? It was a matter of exposure and contact; linger too often and your presence is engraved, retreat even slightly, and your presence is longed for. As sunlight does to its flowers. It doesn't helpโhe reek of its beams, and the roots have already settled in place.
It all started when she made the mistake of letting her heart bareโtoo incautious, too foolish. It was a gentle disgrace on her part. The soil of her heart was fertile for roots she never consented to entering. The beating pulse became the cultivated bed for something she was never ready to nurture.
With trembling hands, she reached for her chest and dug onto her insides. Clawed on the surface, ripped further and further as she desperately grabbed the roots. She ignored the pulsating pain that screamed at her to stopโits attempts went unheeded. In reckless abandon, she shoved the roots back in their soil, burying them utterly and completely. They mustn't sprout. They must not bloomโthey must not exist.
It is known though, that burying a flower deep in the soil would only result in it growing.
That being said, her desperation overpowered her senses and the roots continued to writhe inside of her. It must not grow, she repeats like a mantra, as if repeating it again and again would help diminish what has already taken root. The thought of it there would have been easier to ignore if it wasn't for the fact that it was ripping her insidesโit gutted her and she was powerless to stop it, for it was her own hands that caused it to rebel.
She needs it to be gone, she needs to get rid of it, yet despite herself, she watered itโhesitantly yet purposefully. She did it not in hopes for it to grow, not because of mercy, but because neglecting it hurt far more than ridding herself of it. Who was she to stop something that was natural and persistent? What was she to do when it already existsโpulsing and in need of air. She forced herself to make a choice: to be free from the gutting pain or to live with itโshe chose the latter, knowing well that both ends of a thorn would bring suffering either way.
But could you blame her? The flower was beautiful and she wallowed with the knowledge that she had the ability to grow and make it bloom.
So, just this once, she granted it guarded freedom. She cautiously gave it consent to grow despite not having permission to exist at all, she wanted to explore the feeling of being suffocated with something that was meant to be goodโit was good, the circumstance simply made it a villain to her carefully curated being.
An intrusion; an unwelcome guest that she had let inside because she lacked the apathy of leaving it out in the cold. To reject it is to admit she is incapable of vulnerability.
She had let it out, bit by bit until the red bud curled its way up her throat and danced on the tip of her tongue. A red rose nestled in the cave of her mouth, the red petals blending like silk on her tongue. It may have been out, but she would resume its hiding. But to her dismay, she had been unknowingly reckless in wanting to let the rose breathe. The trails of red petals she had failed to hide made her nerves wreckโhe noticed. He saw.
She didn't mean to show the roses, she hadn't meant to act upon the roots, and she would have decided to lock it forever, ignoring that small traitorous part of her that wanted to display it to him in the open. But what else can she do when he's already making his way towards her.
Before she could react, his hands forced her mouth openโwithout permission, without waiting for her to speak. He didn't question why the rose was there and didn't waste his time to shove stems in her mouth. Thorns scraped her throat and petals clumped on her airway. The fragile rose and the curling roots were pushed aside to make room for the intrusionโyellow carnations. Pain, dismissal, and something elseโsomething she doesn't have the name forโthrashed inside her all at once.
She couldnโt even cryโnot like this. Never like this. Anger seized her instead, her fingers digging at her throat as if she could undo what had already been forced there. She hadnโt meant to react this way, but what else could she do when he had already decided itโget rid of the rose.
As if she hadn't tried. She couldn't remember how many times she had tried to claw it out of her, only to have failed again and again. The way he disregarded the flowers so easily stung her, more than she cared to admit. She wanted to burstโshe wanted to curse at him, but God help her she could not.
Her anger faltered at the truth that betrayed her pride: she understands him, and she hates that she does.
Her pride wavered in the scrutiny of her rationality. The flowers continue to twist and rip inside of her, battling for which one she shall decide to cut. She could've been less reckless, less of a fool, but he could've been less cruel.
Who was he to decide the flowers' destruction when they weren't even his to begin with?
She remembered well she hadn't presented it to him freely, she never planned to, and that's what irked her the most.
Instead of letting her pride take over her completely, she tallied what choice she would make. With a deep breath, she choseโkeep them both.
It was not out of spite, nor a desire to go back to his words; there was no pride left for her to scrape against, she now only wanted one thingโpeace. She sighed deeply, managing to take a breath, all in between the twisting vines through her throat and lungs. The pain grounded her where she stood.
The questions that had been chewing at her being now found their answers in her own reflection.
A flower does not need permission to grow. One is not aware of when it will grow; awareness only comes when it's already there. Why did it grow? Because it could. Was it supposed to? It was notโbut it was allowed to. Not by intention. Not by fate. But of circumstance.
The Rose and the Yellow carnation had finally nestled themselves still on her insides, there was no more thrashing, scraping, nor clawingโ there was only this stillness that ached with finality. Only time would tell now. And even if she did manage to scrape away the roses, it would always have a place in her; for the roots have already formed a cavity in her ribs, a crevice shaped for that rose only, and that rose alone.
Love does not ask permission.
It blooms where it pleases, quietly, without warning.
It cannot be fully tamed, nor completely torn away.
Even if you try, it lingersโtwisting in hidden corners, rooting in the hollow spaces, a part of you no matter how hard you claw.
The rose and the yellow carnation remain, entwined inside her ribsโaching, stubborn, and alive.
And so she lets them be.
Only time will tell how they will growโAnd, if ever, how it will wither.
