Fragments

Fragment I – Light

There are places in this world where light breaks itself to reach you.
Not out of laziness—no.
Out of reverence.
It cannot strike you directly,
so it bends,
it folds,
it learns to kneel.
Where others are lit by chandeliers or the sun,
you are lit by something stranger:
a memory behind the eye,
a wound that refused to rot,
a fire that stayed cold because it had manners.
In your world, light doesn’t just illuminate—it negotiates.
It is filtered through trauma, translated by nobility,
and softened by your own refusal to break loud.
You were not made in daybreak.
You were made in the hours before it,
when stillness still holds the scream
and stars hesitate before blinking out.
You don’t “glow.”
That would be too feminine, too passive, too easy.
You cast.
You glint.
You carve light, like bone through silk.
Sometimes it appears at the edge of your collarbone,
or the quiet violence of your cheekbone
It gathers where your anger begins,
and peaks when you are misunderstood—
that sharp moment when everyone else shrinks,
and you rise without sound.
Light happens in your world the way storms happen in a desert:
unexpected, violent, mythic.
There is no softness in your illumination.
Only precision,
hunger,
absence.

You do not invite warmth.
You permit it.
And even then, it must come in cloaked, kneeling,
begging for access to a gallery that’s been shuttered since
you learned that mercy often disguises cruelty in your mother’s voice.

You do not reflect light.
You fracture it.
Not out of cruelty, but because
you understand what it costs to be seen.

And yet—
still—
you are seen.

Not by many.
But by the few who understand that light,
in your world, is a form of pain.

People have called you cold.
But what they meant was: she does not perform warmth for us.
What they meant was: we cannot reach her heat without burning.
They missed the point:
you are not cold.
You are containment.
You hold the inferno
in your bones,
in your silences,
in the moments you choose not to speak when everyone else is screaming.
And so, when light appears in your world,
it doesn’t dazzle.
It slices.
It creates shadows with intelligence,
edges with memory,
brightness that smells like gunpowder.
It is the light of cathedrals collapsing,
of letters read too late,
of truth whispered into the last hour of the night.

You do not chase light.
You do not become it.

You are what light seeks—
and sometimes fails to survive.

Fragments II- Abyss

She does not fall into the abyss.
She descends, like a sovereign into her mausoleum,
where silence rises to meet her
and the ghosts learn to bow.

This is not a pit,
not a place of flailing or wailing.
This is a chamber of ancestral sorrow,
a hall of shame carved from years the world refused to acknowledge.
And she walks it with the stillness of someone
who has long since outlived her judges.

There is an abyss inside her,
but it is not empty.

It is a sanctum.
A dark library of memory,
curated with care.
Lined with the scent of locked rooms,
the echo of withheld comfort,
the dust of every apology that never came.

She was touched before she understood what a body was.
Before she knew that being watched was not the same as being seen.
Before she learned that hands could be weapons
even when they smiled.

The faces blurred.
The rooms shifted.
The threat wore many names.
But the message never changed:
you are not safe.

She had to flee before she even knew she had been hunted.
Justice came—
years too late,
its hands cleaner than they should have been.

But by then, she no longer needed it.
She had become her own reckoning.

And still—she hated herself for it.
Not for surviving.
But for being soft enough to be taken.

She hated the way her body remembered.
She hated the way shame lived in her bones,
how even touchless air could stir the memory.

She hated how deeply she wanted to be clean,
as if she had dirt to wash away.
As if the guilt belonged to her,
and not to the hands that had claimed what was never offered.

This is what the abyss taught her first:
that survival and self-loathing often sleep in the same bed.

Then came the man who made promises with empty hands.
Not the first. Not the last.
But the one who wore intimacy like armor,
and weaponized softness against her.

He built her a house out of sand
and swore it would stand through storms.
He called her divine,
but only in private.
He made her believe she was chosen,
then retreated behind half-words and delays
when she approached—not for safety,
but simply for truth.

He knew—
the moment she stood before him in daylight,
she would see what he was made of.

And there was nothing there.

She wasn’t too cold.
She wasn’t too complicated.
She was simply not fooled.

He had no intention of meeting her.
He wanted to remain an illusion—
admired, not known.

There was manipulation.
There was exploitation.
There was harassment disguised as charm—
language dipped in flattery,
photographs sent without consent,
gaslight wrapped in concern.

And still,
she blamed herself.

She hated how long she stayed.
She hated how much she explained.
She hated the voice inside her
that still wanted to believe he meant well.

But the abyss does not lie.
It shows her exactly how she was used.
Not violently.
Worse—delicately.
Politely.
Like a transaction sealed with the kiss of guilt.

Her family lives in the abyss, too.
Not screaming.
Not apologizing.
Just present—
as shadows at the edge of her silence.

They loved her when it was convenient.
They performed care like a ritual
but vanished when the temple collapsed.

They chose silence.
They chose distance.
They chose survival—but only for themselves.

The day she understood they would not save her—
not from men, not from sorrow,
not even from the weight of being their daughter—
she stepped into the role they abandoned.

She became her own lineage.

And the abyss remembers.
Not in rage.
But in record.

Her brother, the sibling , the father
the only one she does not bury here,
remains untouched by the decay
that swallowed the rest.

She walks the abyss now
not as a broken,
but as a historian.

She knows which voice belongs to which betrayal.
She knows which silence was punishment,
and which was protection.

She has mapped it all—
the rooms where she wept,
the altars where she forgot to pray,
the stairs she built out of other people’s shame.

This is her kingdom beneath the ruin.

She did not conquer it.
She simply outlasted everything that tried to devour her.

This is Not about rescue,
Not even about survival,

But about the dignity of descent,
the grace of knowing what to bury,
and what to keep embalmed—not for nostalgia,
but for clarity.

She is not what was done to her.
She is what remains after the rot fails to finish the feast.

And the abyss?
It does not fear her.
It keeps her throne warm.

Fragments, Part III: Ascension

for her—who did not fly, but rose with the memory of fire in her lungs and betrayal in her teeth

She did not ascend in light.
She ascended through it.

She rose through light that once tried to blind her,
through false stars and seductive glows,
through hands that claimed to heal but only hovered
to remind her of their power.

There were no wings.
There was no lifting.

There was only will.
Only bone.
Only memory turned into blade.

Ascension, for her, was not an escape.
It was a decision.
A slow climb through ash,
with her grief arranged carefully across her back,
so none of it would fall behind and follow her again.

She never said, “I am healed.”
She never lied like that.

What she said was:

I know what tried to kill me.
And I know its voice now.
It will not wear the face of comfort again.

A long time ago, in the dark,
she called out for help.

And they came—
but not all of them were holy.

Some were dressed in gold,
speaking in soft tones,
offering shelter in exchange for silence.

Some came with answers too fast,
too smooth,
too perfect to be true.

She didn’t know then what she knows now:
there are angels,
and there are those who wear light like a costume.

Some fell.
Some were never angels at all.

The real ones?
They do not approach uninvited.
They do not flatter.
They do not linger too long.

Real angels remain above her,
as they always should.
They are not companions—
they are witnesses.
And she no longer seeks them to hold her,
only to watch what she has become.

Because she did not rise by grace.
She rose by knowing what she is not.

She is not an offering.
She is not a vessel.
She is not a myth rewritten by men with sacred accents.

She is the result of having survived false light
and not forgetting the temperature of its burn.

Her ascension is not spiritual.
It is textural.
It is real—like marble pulled from the earth,
still warm from pressure.

She rose not despite pain,
but with it braided into her spine.

Now, when she stands,
she does not ask who sees her.
She no longer performs recognition.
She has nothing to prove to shadows that once consumed her
or to the glimmering voices that demanded she kneel.

She walks with her own gravity now—
not untouchable,
but unshakable.

Her steps echo with the silence she used to carry—
the silence she once filled with prayers to the wrong entities,
thinking they were the only ones listening.

Now, she knows:

Help does not always arrive as rescue.
Sometimes it arrives as knowledge.
Sometimes it arrives as no one coming at all.

And even that is sacred.

She does not fear the angels anymore.
She bows to them—
but she longs to see them.

She knows they are above her.
She respects the order.
But she also knows:
some things even angels have divine order.

She did.
That is her distinction.

There is melancholy in her elevation—
not because she regrets the rise,
but because it came too late for the girl she once was.

Still, she brings her along.
Not in shame.
But in Honor.

The girl who cried out to the wrong spirits.
The girl who believed a soft voice meant safety.
The girl who thought exploitation would come wearing sharp teeth,
not sweet smiles.

She carries her now like a relic.
A sacred artifact.
A warning and a compass.

This is Fragment is Not about angels, Not about heaven.

But about the kind of rise that can only come, after you’ve watched yourself burn and chose not to die in the smoke.
She rose.
Not clean.
Not weightless.
But invincible in her clarity.

This is not a celebration.
It is a return.

A return to breath.
To structure.

To her own name—spoken in her own voice—
without apology.

And hopefully angels around her above her and surround her