Caged Rose

They called her a rose soft, fragrant, radiant in red.

But little did they know, she grew inside iron bars.

Not every flower blooms under the sun. Some bloom in the dark, where eyes don’t reach and hands don’t touch. She was that flower the caged rose. Planted in a pot of expectations, watered with control, trimmed to fit someone else's idea of perfection.

People adored her beauty but never listened to her silence.

She wasn’t just a flower. She was fire trapped in petals, thunder trapped in thorns. Her cage was made of rules, restrictions, rituals what she should be, not what she wanted to be.

Ever heard a rose scream?

No? That’s because she bleeds quietly.

Every time she tried to bend toward the light, they pulled her back. “Too loud, too bold, too much.” She became a collection of “don’ts” and “shouldn’ts.” She wasn’t allowed to be wild, messy, real.

But even in a cage, a rose dreams of a garden.

Even behind bars, she learns the art of resistance.

Her thorns grew longer not to hurt, but to protect. Her petals thickened not to close, but to preserve. She began writing poems on her leaves, whispering hope into her own stem, dancing with the breeze that slipped through the cracks.

And one day...

The cage rusted.

Not because someone opened it.

But because the rose stopped fearing it.

Now she doesn’t need a garden to bloom.

She is the garden.

She is the rebellion.

She is the soft war in a world too loud.

Because even caged roses rise.