I move quiet but I’m never small, Stepping through the room like I already own it all. They think I’m gentle, but they don’t know the storm I hide— A soft‑spoken danger with a fire in her stride. I learned to rise without making a sound, Ghostlike grace with my feet on the ground. I don’t chase, I choose, I shift the whole scene— A woman made of midnight with a silver‑cut sheen. I break in private, rebuild in the dark, Come back glowing like a match with a memory of spark. I’m the calm in the chaos, the hush in the fight, A silhouette dripping power in the low‑lit night. I don’t beg to be seen, I don’t ask to be heard, My presence speaks louder than any spoken word. I’m the woman they feel before they ever see me— A haunting, a blessing, a quiet deity. I rise slow, but I rise sure, Every scar on my body turned into couture. I’m the version of me that no one could kill— A soft‑voiced legend with an iron‑born will.
