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A recorded reading of “Flowers of Hope (In the Footnotes)”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
In the footnotes where I hid my tears, a small green yes broke through— not loud, not begging for attention, just living like it’s true. I used to think hope was a headline, something bright you had to shout. Now it’s a pressed petal in the gutter, a hinge-sigh lifting paper— opening without a crowd. A superscript number, tiny as a freckle, pulls me down the page. In brackets: what I couldn’t say aloud when my throat was all lock and wage. Pastel glow along the deckle-edge, neon-soft at the seam— harp-light caught in paper grain, like the room remembers how to hold a dream. —slow turn; the spine gives, almost tender— Flowers of hope in the footnotes, blooming where nobody stared. I don’t need a perfect ending— just the proof I showed up there. I close the book—light on my hands, pollen-fine, a quiet sheen. Flowers of hope in the footnotes: small as sleep, teaching me what gentle means. Some chapters still feel heavy— wax that won’t quite cool— and even that is honest living: warmth that takes its time to settle, softening its own rule. So I leave the door half-open for the versions I outgrew. I don’t exile them. I shelve them in an acid-free sleeve of air, with room to be true. On the desk: a herbarium card, thin, brown, official. I slide my pressed petal under the strip— date it, name it, not as evidence, as care. No more worshipping the wound. No more rehearsing “I’m okay.” Just a cloth passed once along the spine, a window unlatched a thumb-width, and the dust choosing its own way. —strings widen; choir like breath behind a door— Flowers of hope in the footnotes, blooming where nobody stared. I don’t need a perfect ending— just the proof I showed up there. I close the book—light on my hands, pollen-fine, a quiet sheen. Flowers of hope in the footnotes: small as sleep, teaching me what gentle means. If the past comes back in whispers, I won’t turn it into chains. I’ll read it like a letter, then set it down again— beside the seed envelope I found tucked behind footnote 7, crease-marked, unopened, waiting like a dare I can accept without shaking. —final turn; hinge-sigh; petal-dust lifts— Flowers of hope in the footnotes, blooming where nobody stared. I close the book—light on my hands, pollen-fine, still there— and the page settles.
Lyrics
In the footnotes where I hid my tears A small green yes broke through Not loud, not begging for attention Just living like it’s true I used to think hope was a headline Something bright you had to shout Now it’s a flower at the hinge That opens when I’m quiet Pastel glow on the page-edge Neon soft around the seam Like the universe remembers How to give me space to dream Flowers of hope in the footnotes Blooming where nobody stared I don’t need a perfect ending I just need to know I cared I close the book— light stays on my hands Like a promise I can keep Flowers of hope in the footnotes Teaching me how to sleep Some chapters still feel heavy Like wax that won’t quite cool But even that is honest living Even that can be gentle too So I leave the door half-open For the versions I outgrew And I bless them like a library Blesses dust and broken rules No more worshiping the wound No more proving I’m okay Just a slow, steady becoming In the light I finally made Flowers of hope in the footnotes Blooming where nobody stared I don’t need a perfect ending I just need to know I cared I close the book— light stays on my hands Like a promise I can keep Flowers of hope in the footnotes Teaching me how to sleep If the past comes back in whispers I won’t turn it into chains I’ll read it like a letter Then set it down again Flowers of hope in the footnotes Blooming where nobody stared I don’t need a perfect ending I just need to know I cared I close the book— light stays on my hands Like a promise I can keep Flowers of hope in the footnotes Teaching me how to sleep
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