I did not bloom.

I broke—petal by petal—

until the soil forgot to bleed.

They called it a garden.

I called it a grave

with manners.

Every root knows her name.

It’s not whispered. It’s clawed.

It’s the ache beneath your heels

when you dream in dirt.

She never screamed.

She smiled,

and the house shook instead.

And the man?

He wasn’t her rescue.

He was the lullaby she became

to make the curse kneel.

If you find this carved,

run your fingers along the wounds.

That’s where she waits.

That’s where I begin.

🩸 A Letter from the Roots: From Briar, To Whomever Finds Her.

(This letter is not inked. It grows beneath the bark of the white tree. If you press your palm to the trunk, it hums into your bones.)

"I thought I was meant to kill the curse.

But some curses are just love with too many memories.

Thorne was never mine to keep—but he kept me. In shadow. In silence. In skin that burned only for me.

I remember his fingers when they weren’t holding me. I remember his voice when it was afraid of itself. I remember what it felt like to look at him and know:

If the world ended today, I would thank it.

Because I touched him first.

I asked him once if he feared what was inside me. He said, 'No. I fear what would happen if I never got to meet all of you.'

I broke after that. Into teeth and fire and memory.

And he stayed.

So when the garden asked for a name…

I gave it mine. And told it his would bloom beside me.

If you can still feel this, Don’t bury your love to save yourself. Bury yourself in your love— and grow something terrifying.

Something holy.

—B"🖤🕯️

🌹 Throne & Briar: The Love That Fed the Garden.

Before Briar became myth, before Throne remembered he was born of shadow and not just pain—they were fragments orbiting ruin.

She was not built to fall in love.

She was built to challenge it.

He was not built to be loved.

He was built to contain it.

Their first kiss tasted like risk. Their first argument cracked the chapel ceiling. Their first night together, Thorne trembled not from lust—but from the weight of being seen.

“No one’s ever chosen me without binding,” he whispered.
Briar smiled. “Good. Then let me be the first to choose you and burn for it.”

And she did.

When she kissed him at the altar, the house screamed.

When he touched her without fear, the Witness inside her gasped—for the first time, it felt something gentle.

They didn’t just fight the curse.

They invited it into their ribs and taught it how to bleed.

Some say love should save you.

They disagreed.

Love should set the match.
And wait beside you for the burn.

And if, one day, the garden calls your name…

Know that what grows there isn’t evil.

It’s love.

It just remembers every time it was abandoned.

"The thorns remember us. Let’s bloom again." 🖤🕯️

~TO BE CONTINUED....!🖤🥀🕯️