she made a masterpiece
out of being underestimated.
they don’t know what to do
with a woman who doesn’t need saving
because she already resurrected herself
three times
before breakfast.
you wanna talk alchemy?
she took all the “you’re too much”
and turned it into a throne room.
now queens call her for tips.
she built an entire language
from the letters they used to label her.
spelled “freedom”
out of every “fuck you”
they etched into her lineage.
when they said “be realistic,”
she painted constellations
with her eyes closed
and made logic beg for mercy.
then taught wonder how to walk again.
you wanna know what power looks like?
it looks like her,
taking hell’s leftovers,
making them holy,
and feeding the angels
who swore she’d never fly.
they told her to settle down,
as if earthquakes ever apologized
for shifting the shape of the world.
she is the sound of every woman
who was ever told to be quiet
becoming the soundtrack
to someone else’s awakening.
loving her means
remembering
that heaven was once a woman
no one believed in.
and still
she rose.
in bare feet.
with galaxies in her hair.
and too much
love
to ever be small again.
