Petals of flame, roots in the dark,
The Phoenix Flower leaves her mark.
What you burned, i made divine—
I was yours once… now you are mine.
The Phoenix Flower leaves her mark.
What you burned, i made divine—
I was yours once… now you are mine.
Blossom: The Phoenix Flower
Past the banquet hall, where Red Velvet’s perfume still haunts the air, there grows a garden that never dies.
Its soil is black glass.
Its roots hum with memory.
And in its heart stands a single flower that burns without being consumed—Blossom, the Flower made from ash and bone.
Its soil is black glass.
Its roots hum with memory.
And in its heart stands a single flower that burns without being consumed—Blossom, the Flower made from ash and bone.
She was not planted. She was reborn.
They say she fell from the cliff behind the castle, thrown from the edge by hands that once caressed her. Her body broke on the stones below, but the earth, drunk on her sorrow, refused to keep her buried. For 27 nights, the ground glowed red. On the 28th, a bud emerged from her ribs—white at first, then fever-bright, its edges kissed by flame.
When the petals opened, they revealed her face—ashen, beautiful, and new. Her breath steamed in the cold, her eyes glimmered like wet embers. She had returned, though not as the girl they had known. The part of her that had loved was gone; only the part that endured remained.
Now she walks the corridors between life and death, never resting, her bare feet leaving scorch marks on the marble. Wherever she passes, wilted things bloom again, but never gently—they bloom as if clawing their way out of hell.
When she kneels among the roses and carnations, their stems tremble, their petals blush crimson. Her voice carries through the garden like smoke:
“Once, I begged for warmth.
Now I am the fire.”
Now I am the fire.”
She touches her chest where her heart used to beat, and a golden glow seeps through her skin. From the hollow of that wound, new light spills—soft, molten, merciful only to her.
woven in the language and rhythm of myth and Bloom begins to softly whisper to the garden:
The Violence in My Heart
Let me tell you a story of the violence in my heart—
how the fire was kindled, and where I first began to burn.
how the fire was kindled, and where I first began to burn.
It began in the dark, when I sat alone beneath a moonless sky.
The wind clawed at my skin, whispering secrets colder than winter.
I wondered where my loves had gone—
if their footsteps still echoed in this world, or if they’d forgotten me entirely.
The wind clawed at my skin, whispering secrets colder than winter.
I wondered where my loves had gone—
if their footsteps still echoed in this world, or if they’d forgotten me entirely.
So I prayed to the distant heavens.
No answer came, only a shiver deep in my bones.
Winter crept inside me —
not as a season, but as an age.
An empire of void built itself around my heart.
No answer came, only a shiver deep in my bones.
Winter crept inside me —
not as a season, but as an age.
An empire of void built itself around my heart.
And when I followed the voices that called my name,
they sounded like honey dripping from a poisoned comb.
They led me by candlelight to the edge of a cliff.
Their sweetness turned to laughter, cruel and sharp like steel.
They carved their names into my skin,
and my blood became their ink. asking for warmth i was seeing only cold faces.
they sounded like honey dripping from a poisoned comb.
They led me by candlelight to the edge of a cliff.
Their sweetness turned to laughter, cruel and sharp like steel.
They carved their names into my skin,
and my blood became their ink. asking for warmth i was seeing only cold faces.
They sang my name like a hymn to my undoing—
a lullaby sharp enough to cut.
I begged them for mercy,
but they only leaned closer,
their voices hollow, their joy unholy.
a lullaby sharp enough to cut.
I begged them for mercy,
but they only leaned closer,
their voices hollow, their joy unholy.
So my soul fled from me, seeking safety in the cold night.
And I was left behind—an empty shell that still breathed.
When you are terrified, you begin to divide.
One to endure, one to disappear- to hide.
And I was left behind—an empty shell that still breathed.
When you are terrified, you begin to divide.
One to endure, one to disappear- to hide.
That is how the hollowing begins. that is how my atoms split and a burn began.
The blows came swift, the pain unending,
each strike a question I could not answer:
Was this fate? Was this divine? Was I ever loved at all?
Only silence watched.
each strike a question I could not answer:
Was this fate? Was this divine? Was I ever loved at all?
Only silence watched.
And something new was born.
My flesh split, my bones cracked,
and from the ruin of my body rose a second fire.
Where innocence once lived, rage bloomed—
petals of ash, roots of vengeance.
My flesh split, my bones cracked,
and from the ruin of my body rose a second fire.
Where innocence once lived, rage bloomed—
petals of ash, roots of vengeance.
When I stood again, I was not the same.
I rose not as the girl they had destroyed,
but as the one their cruelty had conjured—
a creature of blood and blossom,
a flower forged in flame.
I rose not as the girl they had destroyed,
but as the one their cruelty had conjured—
a creature of blood and blossom,
a flower forged in flame.
She dreamed of retribution,
her wrath soft as lullabies, slow as dawn.
Those who had sung her name in mockery
would one day hear it again in terror—
a song carried by the wind,
sweet and burning as the Phoenix bloom.
her wrath soft as lullabies, slow as dawn.
Those who had sung her name in mockery
would one day hear it again in terror—
a song carried by the wind,
sweet and burning as the Phoenix bloom.
When the castle sleeps, she sings to the dead roots in the walls, to the ghosts still questioning their sins. And though she does not cry, dew gathers on the petals that bloom behind her steps. Each drop smells faintly of blood and honey.
It is said that if you find the Phoenix bloom and whisper the name of someone you’ve lost, she will hear you. But do not ask for a return.
She gives only transformation.
She gives only transformation.
For Blossom knows this truth:
what dies in love does not return the same.
It rises brighter, stranger, hungrier.
what dies in love does not return the same.
It rises brighter, stranger, hungrier.
And in her glow, the castle’s frost begins to thaw.
Somewhere deep within the broken dollhouse, mirrors quake, candles flicker back to life, and the air hums with the sound of something ancient—
a joined heart reigniting after a thousand years of silence.
Somewhere deep within the broken dollhouse, mirrors quake, candles flicker back to life, and the air hums with the sound of something ancient—
a joined heart reigniting after a thousand years of silence.