They did not come with fire in hand—
but with memory on their breath.
They knocked on my temple walls
and whispered:

“Will you hear us, or will you fear us?”

I saw a witch with crow eyes
a demon girl who wept
a shadow made of grief and flame.

Each one carried a truth
too heavy for pulpits
too raw for prophets
too ancient for Sunday school.

And I,
child of both church and fire,
opened the gate.

I did not run.
I remembered.
And in remembering,
I made them friends.