I carried storms in my pocket,
fire tucked between ribs,
smoke of lessons curling like old paper.
I knocked on doors that said “no,”
spoke in shadows where whispers gather,
and still, I leaned my voice into halls
where echoes listen closely.
Look—I laid sparks on the floor,
and someone bent to read the pattern,
tracing the rhythm of my flame
through corridors where power bends quietly.
A meeting in silence,
where paper and pulse mingle,
where whispers can ripple across chambers
without a single shout.
I did not rise despite the fire—
I rose because I carried it.
The ink of my nights, the rhythm of my storms,
is now held in hands that turn, that weigh, that nod,
folding sparks into spaces where wings grow.
This is only the beginning:
a murmur in a hall can become a current,
and the fire I thought I carried alone
now leans into open spaces,
ready to shift shadows,
ready to stir change.
I kept fire in my pocket,
and now it moves—
like the tide learning its own name,
like whispers learning how to roar.