She came to me with heavy eyes,
a story of love turned into lies.
A boy had broken what she had built,
left her standing in shadows of guilt.

But queens do not crumble,
they rise from the ground—
I took her hand,
and I fixed her crown.

I told her: *“You are fire,
you are gold,
you are the story
yet to be told.

No boy can dim
the light you bear,
your worth is endless,
beyond compare.”

So lift your head,
let sorrow fall—
you were never small,
you were always tall.

And when the world
tries to drag you down,
remember—queens
adjust each other’s crowns.