There is a girl—
curled beneath the rubble,
beneath the bone-deep silence,
where soot clings to memory
and hope flickers like the last light
in a storm.

The world burned around her.
It called her fragile,
forgotten,
too much,
not enough.
It shattered her name
and scattered her pieces
into the flames.

But even buried,
she breathes.
Even bruised,
she burns.

You see, the fire did not destroy her.
It forged her.

Beneath the ash,
something holy stirred—
a spark,
a whisper,
the slow remembering
of who she’s always been.

I see you there, sweet soul—
not lost,
but hidden.
You are the heartbeat
beneath the wreckage.

The truth is,
You are not the ruin.
You are the rise.

They tried to bury you
in the weight of pain
you were never meant to carry.
But you were forged in deeper places,
in sacred storms
and quiet courage.

Love does not forget you.
It’s in the dirt beneath your feet,
steady and sure
the sky above your trembling frame,
watching over like a promise.

Love is in
the very breath that still moves
through your chest
softly persistent.

Inside the ache,
there is a woman—
bold as thunder,
soft as dawn.

She is both ember and edge,
smoke and soul,
the quiet breath
that fans flame
into fury.

She is the echo of every “no”
that turned into a battle cry.
She is the prayer that didn’t die
in the night.
She is the warrior
the fire couldn’t consume.

Don’t mistake her stillness
for surrender—
she’s gathering her power now—
like lightning
in the belly of a storm.

You see—
even ash holds memory.
Even rubble remembers
what stood tall before it fell.

Sweet soul,
there is power
in the way you rise—
dust-covered, tear-streaked,
holding nothing but hope
in trembling hands.

That is your victory.
That is your worship.

And now,
allow her to remember too.

She remembers the wild in her blood,
the roar beneath her ribs,
the wings she buried
to make others comfortable.

She is not here to be small.
Not anymore.

She stands now—
not untouched by the fire,
but crowned in it.
Ash in her hair.
Glory in her bones.

She wears the scars
not as shame,
but as scripture—
Holy proof
that she walked through hell
and still sings.

She rises,
not gently,
but with the force
of every time she was told to sit still.

She rises,
not asking for permission,
but because it is time.
Because the truth of who she is
will no longer stay quiet
beneath the dust.

She is the phoenix
and the flame.
The burning
and the becoming.
The woman
who remembers
she was never meant
to be anything less
than free.