01/10/2026
they said she was past her prime
as if power had a sell-by date
as if radiance curled up
and died with a wrinkle
she does not flinch
at the bark of critics
she does not flee
at the howl of wolves
because she once ran with them
a part of her still does
there are brambles in her
moon-kissed hair
and moss between her ribs
she is not delicate
she is dangerous
in the way mountains are
her softness?
not surrender
it is velvet
wrapped around steel
the lines on her face?
not cracks
they are sacred glyphs
written by laughter
grief
survival
she’s buried
friends
children
lovers
worn out beliefs
crippling compromises
and roles she wore
like ill-fitting dresses
and in the burial
she grew teeth
not to bite
but to devour truth
when others
politely nibble
or spit it out
entirely
now when she
enters a room
the air shifts
not because of perfume
but because somewhere
between hers scars and the rain
she carries
the ancestors
like rings in a tree
stories like sap
simmer beneath her skin
she knows the language of ash
she speaks in smoke
and shadow
and silence
they told her she was past
her prime
but between her spine
and the stars
she knows
it not over
it’s time
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