(for the Woman, and the Cowards who Fear Her)
she was never too much—
only too alive
for those who mistook control
for strength
and silence for peace.
her becoming was not a performance.
it was a war—
and the ones who claimed to love her
dropped their weapons
only to place their hands
around her throat
in the name of order.
they called her chaotic,
but it was their cowardice
that feared the shape she would take
if left untouched
by their grip.
they chose the seductress,
the one who dances at the edge
of her own erasure—
pliant, priestess of their small gods,
goddess of their easy pleasure.
but the true woman is not
a priestess of men;
she is a temple unto herself.
and to know her,
to truly see her,
requires the man to suffer.
to suffer her beauty
without owning it.
to suffer her fire
without extinguishing it.
to suffer the rise of a soul
that will not yield
to his fear of being seen as less.
he must descend
into the fragmentation
that makes him reach for control—
and there,
only there,
may he begin to rise.
and she?
she is not waiting anymore.
she was always the fire.
and the fire needs nothing
but its own spark
to blaze.