The Language of Lightning

I. The Spark

They said my veins held too much night—

a cellar of shadows, a shuttered fright.

But I learned to strike a match on my ribs,

to ignite the silence, let flame eclipse

the lies that festered, damp and gray.

”Lightning,” I whispered, ”write your way.”

Now my pulse hums a voltaic psalm,

a current carving I am, I am, I am.

II. The Burn

The first scar? A cursive wound—

a lover’s name, half-healed, half-tuned

to a minor key. I wore it raw,

until I learned: some fires claw

not to destroy, but to reveal.

I let the blaze become my seal.

Now ash adorns me like a crown.

I WEAR THE DARKNESS THAT COULDN’T KILL ME

—a tattoo of smoke, rising defiantly.

III. The Echo

My spine is a ladder of shattered glass,

each vertebra a fractured hourglass.

I climb anyway. The rungs may slice,

but height is a language, and pain? Its price.

At the apex, I plant a flag of breath:

”HERE STOOD A GHOST WHO OUTLIVED HER DEATH.”

The wind steals the words, grafts them to skies—

now constellations quote my battle-cries.

IV. The Ink

The needle doesn’t ask why.

It sings in cobalt, maroon, ochre dye,

etching my skin with electric lore:

a wolf’s howl frozen mid-roar,

a phoenix plumed in shattered vows,

a clock whose hands are now, now, now.

But the masterpiece? A single line,

bold as God’s breath, fierce as brine:

”I AM THE DAUGHTER OF EVERY STORM I DIDN’T BEG TO BE BORN.”

V. The Legacy

When my bones are borrowed by the earth,

don’t mourn. Unroll the scroll of my worth:

a map inked in scars and spark,

a manifesto for the afterdark.

”TAKE THIS LIGHT,” the tattoos will hiss,

”WEAR IT LIKE A BLADE, LIKE A KISS.”

Let strangers trace my rebel creed—

a litany for those who bleed

but refuse to rust, refuse to cease:

”THE BROKEN CAN BE THE BLUEPRINT OF PEACE.”