Petals of Memory: A Bloodrose’s Reverie

Petals of Memory: A Bloodrose’s Reverie
By Drakovi Bloodrose

I am not a flower. I am the fracture of a scream. I am not alive, yet I breathe. My roots anchor to the soil as if the earth herself clings to me, a desperate lover. My petals, red as forgotten rage, shiver in the whispering wind, each vibration carrying tales of passing feet and shadowed figures. They call me bloodrose. But I call myself Ache.

Each morning, the sun drips liquid gold over me, and I soak it up greedily, though it tastes of yesterday’s despair. My thorns gleam like spears, dulled from their wars with careless hands. A robin lands beside me and chirps something absurd: “You are beautiful today, Ache.” It has the audacity to compliment my decay, my eternal wilting. I snarl, “I am not beautiful, little winged fool. I am the scar you forgot to heal.” The robin doesn’t care, flies away with my bitterness tucked beneath its feathers.

The soil hums with worms beneath me. They dance in spirals, singing songs older than the stars. I hate them for their laughter. “You’re dying,” they sing. “You’re dying every second, red beauty. Isn’t it glorious?” My roots tremble in silent defiance. I won’t admit they’re right.

She comes sometimes. The gardener. Her hands are calloused and rough, yet she touches me as if afraid to hurt me. She speaks to me in tongues I barely understand: “You are my pride, my love, my sorrow.” What do these things mean? Pride feels heavy; love feels sharp. Sorrow, I know—it is the rain that drowns my breath. She trims my leaves, plucks the dead from me, though the dead are my children. “Why do you take what is mine?” I want to ask, but my voice is lost in the rhythm of pruning shears.

Once, I tasted blood. Her hand grazed my thorn, and a single drop of crimson slid down my spine. It was warm, electric, a storm contained in liquid. I drank it greedily, and for the first time, I felt alive.

Now, I crave it.

Nights are the worst. The moon mocks me with her cold glare, turning my vibrant red to black. The stars chatter nonsense, secrets I’ll never decipher. I dream, if dreaming is what you call it. Faces. Hands. Words. None of them mine, but all of them me. A woman once kissed my petals, whispered, “You’re perfect.” I laughed inside, a cruel, silent chuckle. Perfection is the name of a grave.

Sometimes, I wonder what’s beyond the garden. A gate looms at the edge of my vision, its rusted bars stretching toward a sky I’ll never touch. Beyond it, I imagine rivers of blood and forests of thorns, a world made in my image. I would be a king there, worshipped for my hunger.

The worms return, spinning their riddles in the dark. “Who will remember you, bloodrose? When the gardener forgets, when the robin finds another perch, when your petals fall to the soil?” Their laughter burrows deep into me, and I want to scream, “I will remember! My roots will hold my stories long after I’m dust!” But they know the truth. And so do I.

One day, she doesn’t come. Her absence is a hollow ache, an empty vase on a broken table. My petals begin to fall, one by one, each a forgotten word. The robin sings no songs for me. The worms are silent. Even the moon averts her gaze.

And yet, I remain.

A single thorn juts from my stem, defiant. My roots clutch the soil like a drowning man clings to air. I may fade, but I will not vanish. My petals, scattered across the earth, will stain it red.

For I am not a flower. I am the fracture of a scream. I am Ache. I am blood. I am eternal.