She doesn’t grow where she’s planted-
but in soils they swore were barren,
her roots splitting stone,
pushing through cracks,
drinking rain that once denied her.

She doesn’t whisper her worth-
her voice is the tide
summoning storms, reshaping shores,
washing away the footprints of those
who tried to walk over her.

Her beauty isn’t in the curve of a hip
nor the tilt of a smile-
it’s in the fire beneath her ribs:
a slow-burning, stubborn sun
that warms and warns all at once.

She holds herself together
with threads of patience,
each stitch a memory,
each seam a promise
that she will not break-
not here,
not anywhere.

And when she rises
it’s not defiance
but declaration:
I am here.
I am whole.
I am woman