She learned the language of thunder young,
how it rolls without asking permission.
While other hearts folded like paper in rain
hers stitched lightning into ambition
They told her storms were not for girls--
that the wind would tangle her hair and plans.
She braided the gusts into ropes of gold
and climbed with her own two hands
Her knees knew gravel, her palms knew ache,
her voice once trembled in crowded rooms.
But even a whisper, fiercely kept,
can rattle the oldest tombs
She carries her scars like heirlooms earned,
not hidden in velvet or shame.
Each mark a stitch in the fabric of self,
each failure a different flame.
When doubt comes knocking in heavy boots,
she answers steady and slow.
"ive danced with worse," she tells the dark,
"and still I choose to glow"
Love did not break her into softer shapes,
nor did loss unspool her spine.
She bends like willow in ruthless wind,
yet her roots refuse to decline
For through every trial, each severed seam,
each night that frayed her stead--
there runs in her pulse a silver line
an unbroken, burning thread.