Phoenix-Souled

Women — we are the fault lines of the world. Every shudder, every quake, every heartbreak — we hold it. We turn pain into knowing. We carry weight like it’s woven into us. We feel everything, everywhere, eternally. We are tuning forks for feeling, diviners of grief, antennae tuned to ache — drawn to the buried, the overlooked, the lost loves still pulsing under skin. We are sacred dowsing rods. We find water in the desert. We find truth in the noise. We wear our false face well — polished, professional, smiling. But underneath? Oh, sister. We burn like galaxies. We are whispers of starlight etched across the night. We are the caretakers, the carers, the misunderstood, the misnamed. We are chaos, wrapped in avalanche. We are — above all — sisters. A fiery genesis. A storm of will. A will to rise. Do as I kneel beside you, sister — look me in the eyes. Know: you are the strong one. Let your gentleness rise. Let it grow like flame beneath your skin. Let it speak. We wield the strength of willow: bending, but never broken. Quiet, but never powerless. We are the pulse behind history’s silence. We are the flare in the throat of every silenced scream. We are not what’s left after the storm — we are the storm. And we are still — still — rising. We are not the ashes — we are the match. Strike us, and we burn with the memory of every sister they tried to silence. We are love with teeth, mercy wrapped in thunder. We do not shatter — we sharpen. We carry sorrow in our marrow and still walk like gods. So kneel, or rise — but do not look away. We have risen. We are flame. And we remember everything.