She

She moves without arrival, as if every place remembers where she broke, where her name was once a whisper that trembled, not echoed.

The air folds around her quiet, carrying the scent of things that almost healed.

Power, once wild, now aware…it flickers beneath her calm like a last spark refusing surrender.

She says much when her heart burns….not always in the language of love, sometimes in the language of fury, because even her anger is a form of care. Her words, when she gives them, are faith…she speaks only where she feels safe enough to break.

But when the ground beneath her begins to vanish, when those she leans on mistake her strength for certainty, she falls into silence; not because she has nothing to say, but because she knows no one is listening deeply enough to hear.

Her strength then is invisible, the quiet endurance of someone who still hopes even when hope has gone unnamed.

And in that stillness, between love and absence, she remains……a broken flame, gentle yet unyielding, burning not to be seen, but to remember she’s still alive.

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