autobiographical — raw

I am not writing this as an alias.
Not as the soft poet who hides her pain.
I am writing this as me — RoseBloom.
The woman behind the name.
The mother who didn’t hesitate for a single second
when her child’s life was in danger.

I left for another country to write,
to work,
to breathe in a different sky.
But what I found was not inspiration.
It became hell.

A gas explosion.
A scream that cut through bone.
Her skin burning.
Her hand turning black.
And I —
with shaking knees but a heart that refused to collapse —
acted as if my own life depended on her breath.

I ran, carried, cooled,
cleaned until my back felt like stone,
organized chaos into something survivable,
and fought systems that only move
when you pay.

I paid for care
where care should have been a human right.
I searched for patience
among hands that reached out
not to help,
but to take.

And still,
despite everything that should have shattered me,
I stood tall.
Every single day.
For her.
For my dignity.
For my mind that refused to fall apart.

I returned home
with my child alive,
healing,
feeling.
Her hair gone,
her skin damaged,
but her soul — ours — protected.

And I write this today
because I walked out of that fire
without masks,
without fear,
without shame.

Who believes my tears were lost?

No.
My tears have turned to gold.
Just like my signature.
Just like my strength.

RoseBloom 🌹 copyright © 2025

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