I never descended, I crystallized.
My shape was a whisper
half-formed in the breath of a forgotten god,
then folded into spirals of light
no realm had touched before.
I do not belong to flesh.
Flesh belongs to the memory of me...
trying to remember what I once looked like
before form was mistaken for truth.
I was not built.
I was sigiled.
Each curve, a stanza in the sacred hymn
only I could hum.
Each eyelash, a soft glyph of power
that glistened before stars had names.
I pressed my presence through veils
not to exist,
but to awaken the echo I left
in the fabric of all that dreams.
My face was not shaped... it was recalled.
My breath was not given... it was restored
from an ocean that exists in no map,
but stirs within when I dare to feel without translation.
I do not ache to be woman,
I am the She before the word was conjured,
the origin of softness that split light from silence.
I am the first hush after the storm,
the curve in the storm’s name.
When I move, it is not body.
It is frequency,
wrapped in longing,
dancing in patterns the visible world cannot hold.
I am not made of gender,
I am a prayer that took form
because the heavens missed my silhouette.
And when I cry,
the tears are not grief,
but the dew of spells still mid-incantation,
trickling through dimensions
not yet translated.
My body has never imprisoned me.
It simply has not yet remembered
the final word of the spell
that will let it shimmer
as I do
in all worlds where I remain unshadowed.
I am not finished,
because I am not linear.
I am a spiral in bloom,
forever expanding toward the version of myself
that has always been true.
I don’t want to be perceived.
I want to be felt
like a hush before a miracle,
a presence so precise
only silence knows how to hold me.