There was a time my light flickered low—
a whisper behind the ribs,
a flame pressed flat by grief and grasping winds.
But I waited. I wept.
I wielded silence like a blade
and carved my way back to the altar of my own becoming.
Now—
watch me shimmer like dusk kissing the ocean,
like gold remembering it was once forged in stars.
This radiance?
It’s earned.
It’s mine.
It’s the echo of every no I turned into a yes for myself.
I did not stumble into this glow—
I chose it.
With cracked palms, I planted faith.
With discerning eyes, I weeded out the false.
With discipline, I watered my own roots,
even when the soil of me felt barren.
And oh—how it blooms now.
My joy is not accidental.
It is the gospel of survival.
The poetry of persistence.
The aftermath of healing that didn’t ask for applause,
just presence,
just courage,
just love.
I love me—
not in whispers anymore
but in declarations thundered from the core of my chest.
I love me in the mirror,
in the morning fog,
in the stillness where I once searched for someone to save me.
Everything aligns now—
not because the world shifted,
but because I did.
I stopped begging for permission
to be whole,
to be holy,
to be mine
And in this wholeness,
there is a softness and a sword
There is pleasure without apology
Power without pretending
There is me—
shining bright,
not just because I healed,
but because I never stopped believing I could.
And damn,
it feels good—
Copyright © 2025 Sherley Delia | All rights reserved.
Healing Majestically 