You Can’t Bottle This

Don’t let the gloss fool you,
I’m not your average essential oil blend.
I’m the storm that brewed in your grandmother’s cauldron,
With a pinch of sass and a whole lotta sacred bend.

I am Earth when she’s tired of being stepped on,
Fire when she’s dancing in stilettos at midnight.
I’m Water when she’s in her feels and still flows,
Air when she’s done explaining her damn light.

You can’t copy this—trust me, they’ve tried.
Wrapped it in ribbon, stamped it “divine,”
But the truth don’t wear knock-offs,
And the spirit don’t do “Made in China” signs.

This glow?
It ain’t Sephora.
It’s years of soul-peeling and scream-crying in the shower,
Then walking out smelling like moonlight and power.

No course can teach you this alchemy.
No influencer can pose in it just right.
It’s born in the blood, baby—
In the messy, glorious, sacred midnight fight.

I am the elements wearing red lipstick.
I am the ceremony in every side-eye.
I’m the goddess who blesses and checks you,
And prays you learn to fly.

So let ‘em watch, let ‘em wonder,
Let ‘them Google “how to get her vibe.”
But here’s the truth, honey—
You either are the flame
or you just warm your hands by the fire.

So next time they ask,
“What’s your secret?”
Smile, sip your tea, and say:
“Divine law, baby. And a little bit of ‘mind your business.’”