She Wore Oceans

She is not a body,

but a tide

pulling and spilling,

full of moons.

Simply a name stretched over bone like wet silk,

she is the ash and the match,

the echo in a room where every woman left a piece of herself nailed into the wall.

Her skin is not skin

it’s a field,

wild and burning,

sowed with silence and bloom.

They told her

she was too much

and not enough all in the same breath.

So, she became wind.

she became wave.

she became the sound of glass before it breaks

but doesn’t.

She does not ask to be understood.

Only to be held like a mystery,

like myth,

like the last word of an unfinished prayer.