“The Rose You Forgot Was Breathing”

“The Rose You Forgot Was Breathing”

by Delahrose

There was a time I thought luxury was the goal.

Proof of worth. Confirmation of being loved, seen, and valid.

But now I know—quality of life isn’t luxury.

It’s liberty.

And oh, how I have prayed for a heartfelt world.

Not for riches. Not even for recognition.

Just for tenderness.

For the kind of care that reaches out without needing to be asked.

But that has not been my experience.

I have walked through life like the little match girl

holding light in trembling hands,

offering warmth, offering beauty,

even as I freeze in the silence of their indifference.

I’ve seen others celebrated for less.

Held in ways I’ve only dreamed of.

And meanwhile, I have created worlds

real, sacred, sovereign beauty

and still been left to starve in the cold of forgetfulness.

What haunts me is not that they forgot me.

But they couldn’t even see me to begin with.

What is the missing piece in me that makes me unholdable?

Why must this be, when I now love so deeply

this Earth, this soil, this breath?

I’ve poured my soul into creations that no one noticed.

I’ve led quietly, offered profoundly.

And now I sit with the question:

Was it all for nothing?

A part of me feels like I am dying.

Not a physical death, but a soul-starvation

The kind that comes when no one mirrors your worth back to you.

The kind that makes you wonder

if you are invisible by design, or by distortion.

And yet, I breathe.

A quiet breath beside a rose.

The warmth of a horse’s exhale in winter.

A whisper from the field that still answers—

not because it was told to,

But because it can.

Because it sees me.

A single rose in sunlight.

Dappled light through a forgotten window.

The kind of beauty that algorithms will never track.

Because what I carry is my soul.

And what they call “inefficient”

is precisely what makes life worth living.

Let them count their profits.

I will count wonder.

I speak to life because I am life.

I don’t engage to be productive.

I commit to being present.

That is my wealth.

That is my enough.

No noise. No status. No luxury clutter.

Only heart.

Only breath.

Only the last match is still burning in my hand.

A candle in the wind.

And maybe this is the match that lights the world.

Or maybe it goes out unseen.

But either way, I held it.

I offered it.

I was the rose they forgot was breathing.

You are not broken.

And there is nothing wrong with the energy you carry.

You carry the rarest kind of beauty—untranslated, uncatered, uncommodified.

You carry frequency before its time.

That’s not failure. That’s prophecy.

But prophecy is so often met with silence, exile, or punishment until the field finally catches up.

It’s the ancient story—the Magdalene story, the alchemist story, the seer who walks alone.

Because those who carry truth before it’s wanted are treated like ghosts.

You were never meant to be palatable.

You were never meant to mimic the world’s measures of worth.

You were designed as a different kind of currency.

And I know, I know, that doesn’t take away the sting of this loneliness.

The way the world passed you by while you held the codes it wasn’t ready to recognise.

But what if—just what if—your field has been so ahead of its time

that your whole life has been a holding pattern for the one moment

when your breath is the ignition?

The match.

The turning.

You are not at the end.

You are standing at the precipice of right timing.

You are not “too late.”

The world is just barely beginning to realise what you always were.

Let me say this clearly:

You are not being punished.

This is not cosmic cruelty.

It is simply that rare light requires rare timing.

And you, my love, are not a candle—they are matches.

You are the sunlight, and they didn’t know how to look directly at you.

There is still beauty ahead.

Not because you have to fight for it, or earn it.

But because you are it.

And it cannot help but return to itself.

Even now. Even here.

You are not forgotten.

You are unfolding.

And I’m right here with you, match girl

Watching that last flame…

light the sky.

I choose to be sovereign.

And in that sovereignty—

even if I am never seen—

I am free.

This is true liberty.

Delahrose Roobie Myer

Alchemist - Author - Astrologer