Come Home to the Altar of You

Stop.
Stop running toward the applause
of those who never learned to listen.
Stop pouring from a well
you never drink from.
Stop mistaking your burnout
for purpose,
your exhaustion
for love.

You are not
a lantern to be lit for everyone else
while your own flame dies in silence.

No.

You are
the original fire.
The untouched ember of creation.
The sacred hush before dawn breaks.

Your breath is a temple.
Your body, a scripture.
Your knowing, divine.

You’ve lifted kingdoms on your back.
Danced in the dust of broken dreams.
You’ve survived storms
that forgot your name.

And still—
you rise.

But what if this time,
you rose
for you?

What if you drew the line—
not in sand,
but in sovereignty?
What if your presence
became your protest?
What if your joy
was the revolution?

Come home.
Not to a place,
but to your pulse.
To the chi you scattered
like coins at the feet of ungrateful gods.

Come home.
To the altar of your wholeness.
To the mirror that does not lie.
To the silence that sings your name.

Let your energy belong to you again.
Let your life bend into mysticism,
not from striving—
but from surrender.

And from that sacred place,
watch how the world
remakes itself
in the image of your becoming.

Because when you stop outsourcing your power,
you remember the truth:
You were never lost.
Just waiting
for your own return—

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