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Walking through a room of her own mind, she finds shadows she once left untouched, now revealed for the world to see. The way she pragmatically addresses each figure—each demon—goes unremarked, even as they scream in her face, spitting memories of not being good enough. Paradoxically overshadowed by her own inability to remain quiet, she stays steadfast.

Steadfast through those who try to murder her with their words, yet sit politely behind pulpits of ordainment. She sees through each one and loves anyway; she is peace anyway, even as her stomach turns with nerves vast enough to fill an aisle of despair—so antiquated, so posed. She mirrors them all with her own face, hidden deep within her own image.

Now the monsters come, and she pushes them back—not with breath, and certainly not with might, but with a gentleness that moves mountains and opens doors so effortlessly she wonders how she ever missed it: this majestic rapture, this rising—beauty from ashes, life from despair.