Phoenix in the Mirror

I walked through halls of whispering shadows,

each reflection a cage of whispered judgments,

the weight of their voices heavy on my shoulders,

the dark a suffocating cloak, stitched with shame. 

But the mirror changed its shape,

no longer a battlefield of flaws,

but a quiet altar of my own becoming.

I see flesh, I see curves, I see strength—

not marred, not too much, not wrong—

but mine, sacred in its quiet rebellion.

The chains of old thoughts crack beneath my fingers,

dust rising like smoke in a forgotten cathedral.

Time, patient as a river, carries the dead weight downstream,

and I stand, finally, in the sunlight

that tastes of violet and iron,

my body no longer a burden

but a banner unfurling in the wind.

I wear my skin like armor and silk,

clothes no longer a mask but a choice,

each fold a declaration:

I am here. I am whole. I am unafraid.

And still, the horizon hums with promises—

change, slow and steady,

a tide pulling me toward better things,

a hope that blooms like black roses

in the gardens of my chest.

I will watch myself grow.

I will be the alchemy I crave.

From shadow, from weight, from quiet despair,

I rise—

not perfect, not finished,

but radiant in my becoming.