Late Bloomer. by MissT

They called me a late bloomer,
like it was a quiet insult
tucked behind a smile.
As if the clock had shamed me
for not blooming on cue.

But I was never made
for hothouse hours
or anyone else’s season.
My roots grew deep
where no one could see
in grief, in grit,
in stories whispered to the dark.

Now here I am,
eight weeks into blooming,
and over a thousand eyes
have caught my colours.
They read my storms,
they feel my fire,
they linger in my truth.

Late?
Maybe.
But I didn’t arrive empty.

I arrived ready.