Her name is Rose. She’s quite the romantic, and wears her heart on her sleeve. It shows in different ways, in a rainbow of different colors, but most often, when she’s feeling that itch of desire seeping into her roots and making her feel fit to bloom, when she can’t contain the love that swirls in her chest, she’s red and bold and bursting with passion. But she’s not one for everyday expressions of affection— her vulnerability is rare and it’s calculated, but it shows up when it’s important, when words just aren’t enough.

Her spirit ebbs and she flows when she’s grounded, she has her downs but she always picks herself back up when she has the right support, when she can still hold on tight to her roots. It’s when she’s ripped away that she becomes unmoored, when she struggles to stay blooming with only the barest dregs of energy life offers.

She’s soft at her core, a heart that goes deep and explodes out as she’s grows, but she’s got sharp edges too. Bumps and bruises that go as deep as her roots, growing pains that sprout without her permission and can hurt inside and out. Things in her past and present that can sting without warning and push people away, ugly parts of her that she can’t hide but are fused deep in her bones and that without she would wither, parts that are messy but still make her who she is.

And still she keeps growing. And still she blooms. And still she loves and spreads love as far as her heart can reach.

Even when she withers, when her spirit drains and she can’t stand on her own, still she hangs on. Even when her colors start to fade and her foundation crumbles, her heart perseveres.

And she still has her flaws, and still she might have more room to grow, and still she might wilt with the strain of life, but still she is beautiful.