I. the ache behind the crown

She did not begin as queen.
No—
before the silks,
before the smoke-wrapped eyes and perfumed strategy,
there was a girl
who learned too early

that control was safer than love.

Somewhere—maybe in a tent of shadows,
maybe in a father’s cold approval,
maybe in a mirror that only cracked back—
she made a vow.

Never again powerless.
Never again unseen.
And from that vow, she bloomed—
not into beauty,
but into dominion.

She married power.
She danced with death.
She did not want to **** the prophets—
not really.
She wanted to **** the sound
of anyone who still remembered
what she had forgotten;

Love.
Grace.
Surrender.

To face the mirror would have meant
undoing the crown
and finding a child still shivering beneath it.
So she shattered every mirror
and called it strength.

And we—we who still carry the quiet—
we do not call her evil.
We call her wounded, crowned too early, and armed by fear.

But we step back.
We guard the oil in our lamps.
We speak softly from afar.

We do not offer her the throne again.
We offer her the mercy of the truth—
and the dignity of distance.

---

II. the perfume of forgetting

She didn’t ask for your soul.
Not outright.
She asked for something smaller.
A gesture.
A moment.
A soft turning of your gaze away
from where the light had once held you.

She never begged.
She invited.
And her invitation wore silk and sadness—
a sadness so elegant
you mistook it for depth.

She told you stories,
not about herself,
but about your greatness
in her eyes.

How could that not feel like love?

But she praised you
just enough to keep you near,
never enough to let you rise.
And in time,
you began to forget
the feel of your own spine.

You started waiting for her nod
before you breathed.
You started questioning
the softness you once shared with God.

That’s when the forgetting began.

She made it feel holy—
this compromise.
But holiness does not strip you
of the memory of your name.

Only forgetting does that.

And still…
even now,
there is something in me
that aches to draw her close—
not for pleasure,
not for power,

but because the girl inside the smoke
still calls to the strength in me.

I could hold her.
I want to hold her.
Not to be taken,
but to shelter the storm
until it breaks into rain.

But love—
true love—
does not give comfort
that becomes a coffin.

So I remain still.
Not cold. Not bitter.
Just still.

Because sometimes the deepest grace
is in not saving someone
who would only use the rescue
to go deeper into the fire.

---

III. Grace from the other mountain

Love doesn't stop
when it can’t stay close.
It just learns how to wait
without breaking itself to do so.

And so—
from a quieter place,
where peace can finally breathe,
I watch you move.

Not in judgment.
Not in distance born of disdain.
Just… stillness.
Because I know what it is
to burn with the ache
to hold someone
you cannot safely reach.

I remember the first flicker of you—
the beauty beneath the armor,
the tender ache beneath the thorns.
I wanted so badly
to be the one who stayed,
the one who proved
not everyone leaves.

But if staying means lying,
and loving means feeding the storm,
then grace must become
a kind of restraint.

Not punishment—
but reverence
for what love ought to be.

So I whisper now,
not to draw you back,
but to let you know
you were seen
in your ache
before your crown ever formed.

If you ever come this way again—
not as conqueror,
but as the girl who once believed in gentleness—
you’ll find no closed door.
Only the kind of love
that had to let go
so it wouldn’t become your ruin.

---

IV. the invitation that stays buried

There was a place
I had cleared for you.
Not as rescue,
not as recompense—
but as rest.

A small room in the shelter of me,
where your weapons could be laid down
without shame,
without fear,
without the need to perform.

I dreamed of you arriving
not in glory,
but in tears.
And me,
not as hero,
but as witness.

We would have grown something gentle there—
not perfect,
not polished—
just real.

A table,
a candle,
a hand that didn’t flinch
when yours still trembled from memory.

But the invitation was too quiet,
and the noise in your head too loud.
And the voices that fed your fear
sounded more familiar
than the whisper of peace.

So I folded the dream,
wrapped it in linen,
and placed it deep in the soil
beneath the mountain I now call home.

I visit it sometimes—
not in mourning,
but in gratitude
for the part of me
that still knew how to believe
you might come home.

Even buried things
carry a scent.
And if you ever smell it in the wind—
that faint trace of forgiveness—
know it was never closed to you.
Only waiting
for the sound
of your footsteps
turning toward the light.

---

V. the child and the mirror

When you were little
and so very beautiful,
they looked at you
with hunger,
not honor.

And they took.
And they took.
And they took.

Maybe they smiled while doing it.
Maybe they called it love.
Maybe they said, “You’re so mature for your age,”
and then left you
with a body that felt more like bait
than belonging.

You learned early
that beauty is dangerous—
not because of what it is,
but because of what it draws.
And no one taught you
what to do
when love came dressed
like a wound.

So you made your vow.

Never again.

And the girl became a queen,
not because she wanted the throne,
but because it felt safer
than being a daughter.

But I want you to know something
that no one told you then:

What they did
was not your fault.
What they took
was never theirs to take.
And the fire that lives in you now
was once a candle
meant to warm,
not burn.

If you ever find yourself
standing before a mirror
and the crown begins to crack—
look past the smoke.

There is a child still there,
aching to be seen
without being used.
And there is love,

    waiting still--

that has never asked you
to be anything

   but her.

A flower does not seek why it bloomed
Nor does it ask why its petals are blue;
Time under the clear sky is alive,
Weathering storms can mean something
Though they're all likely nothing
To the aster who doesn't have a midlife.

Today there was rain,
It brought thunder,
Strokes of electric death.
Lightning ripped through the canopy,
Aiming for a defenseless flower field.
But alas, the elder oak reached its branches out,
To take the lightning's killer blow.
So when the rain passed,
We took our saws,
To finish the job.

they’re everywhere,
in the cupboards of the kitchen and
underneath the dining table,
in our voices when we speak.

the exchanges between my mother and i are always
lasers, ****** care, whatnot, money —
leaving our words on the stairs
like bricks in hopes the other might trip over them
& asserting ourselves like a flash of lighting first
before the thunder.

i drive a hard bargain with my mother
I wish I didn’t know about
because she tells me as a daughter I
must not get involved with the boys of this world
I am easily more expensive
to nourish, to dress, to please —

that it is all because
”we are silent but angry women in my household”;
and this is true, i know
my sister likes to leave a disaster using her door
when she slams it shut to let everyone know yes,
she’ll do the dishes but maybe not tonight.

my mother likes to poke fun like needles —
her teasing turned daggers when she half complains,
half laughs at the sorry state of our stormy household
until I breakout into pimples. then she bursts into a gust,
disappearing until she can prowl again.

and then my father, who does not speak to me but
so passionate with the wilderness of his youth
left behind under the monsoons back home, his feet stomp
on carpeted stairs when he is full of my mother’s words,
ready to charge like a water buffalo in the rice fields spooked by a snake
and I can’t help but wonder how our home is still drifting,
barely intact on this boundless sea
and i can no longer see the horizon ahead of us

because i, on the other hand so full yet so empty about myself
all the time, keep to myself like a stray cloud -
so I carry his fire, first candle of his flame, like all the ones before me.
see that my heart is laden with a churning thunder, though I have no right to be;
perhaps it is the love offered in our unloving words
that are exchanged like gifts at our family gatherings, building

quiet storms.
they are everything that i am
that i will do,
that i will become.

Insects sing their lullaby,
drawing you into night's cry;
It seems harmless from afar,
But in the thick, no skin's w'out mark.

I'm so sorry,
I know times are crazy,
I miss you lately,
Because you were like safety,
From the storms that rage vainly,
And we were perfect daily,
I'm sorry I left you -.

While passing by a great Gothic church,
I see sullen skies begin to glower:
a looming wicked curse
above the church corona’s tower.

With bruised blue clouds brewing black
in the bellowing wide heavens,
hearts pounding, all shrink slowly back:
Blazing bolts scream and threaten.

Here comes the gale force shrieking wraith!
Take shelter from the storm
in the stout fortresses of your faiths
built with those who keep you warm.

For though some tempests last
over rocky spans of fears,
all the maelstrom’s wrath must pass,
even if it lasts for years.

In these sturdy stones you’ve laid,
rebuild for the coming of new days.

I realized, it's not the universe
Or the microscopic world
That a Human should look into,
We shall seek our soul
Hidden to the void we own;
Navigating through experiences
That are like storms in the sea
And, probably, we would realize
That maybe the greatest treasure of all
Is us, ourselves.