THE FLOWER AND THE BEE

She was a mosquito in the ear of silence,

Always talking, always childish,

A little noise the world could never understand.

Yet somehow,

She was a flower—

Soft enough to tremble beneath the wind,

Bright enough to bloom after every storm.

And I was a bee.

Drawn to her sweetness,

Lost in the colour of her petals,

Never wanting to leave

The garden she had unknowingly become.

But flowers do not always bloom without scars.

Her past had been a storm

That refused to pass.

Heavy winds had bent her branches,

And relentless rain had stolen

The fragrance she once carried so proudly.

She had been hurt

In ways no flower should ever have to endure.

And still,

She bloomed.

Not because the pain had disappeared,

But because she had learned

How to shine through it.

Like a newborn morning

After the darkest night,

She carried her brokenness

With a beauty the world mistook for strength.

No other flowers stopped to listen.

The sun admired her colours

But never asked about her shadows.

The garden admired her fragrance

But never noticed how deeply she was wilting.

And then there was the bee.

The world saw only the sting.

They believed I was the reason

Her petals had fallen.

Perhaps they were right.

But what the world never knew

Was that the bee who hurt her

Was also the only one

Who stayed long enough to hear her cry.

The softest flowers

Often carry the deepest pain.

And sometimes,

The one the world remembers

As the cause of the wound

Is the same one who knows

Where it hurts the most.

She was a flower.

I was a bee.

And somewhere between

The sweetness of her petals

And the sting of my wings,

We became two wounded creatures

Trying to understand

Why love could feel like both

A garden and a storm.