To the One Who Laughs in Gold and Prays in Silk

I love the way I laugh—
like thunder in silk heels,
like the universe just told me a dirty joke
only God and I would understand.
I sip joy like holy wine
and kiss my reflection
like it’s the altar where divinity begins.

My hips?
They’ve outlasted storms,
held whole bloodlines in rhythm,
and still sway like Sunday praise.
I carry oceans in my womb
and galaxies in my gaze.
I don’t walk—I glide,
blessed with incense in my breath
and prayers in my bones.

I’m not just a woman,
I’m a living psalm—
written in laughter,
edited in fire,
bound in sacred velvet.

I give myself flowers—
not once a year,
but every single sunrise.
Orchids for my patience.
Lavender for my peace.
Roses for every battle I bloomed through.
Because I deserve a bouquet
for simply waking up and choosing
to be holy and hilarious at the same time.

I treasure myself like scripture
etched in gold behind the veil.
I know what I’m worth—
and it’s not up for negotiation.
I romance my own soul
with candlelight baths
and whispered affirmations.
I pour into me
like I’m the sacred well I’ve always prayed to.
Because I am.

I’ve loved others,
but none have loved me deeper
than the woman who refused to leave me
in the middle of my unraveling.
She stayed.
She stayed when it wasn’t cute.
She stayed when the world was silent.
She stayed and sang lullabies
to the parts of me
even I was afraid to look at.
And she—I—became the miracle.

I’m no longer waiting to be chosen.
I was hand-selected by the Divine
to be a walking temple,
a vessel of rhythm and revelation,
a flame that remembers
how to dance and not burn.

And baby—
I would choose me
in this life,
in the next,
in every realm where love is law
and spirit is currency.

So here’s to the One who
laughs in gold,
prays in silk,
gives herself flowers in the dark,
and walks like she’s already met God.

Amen,
Ashé,
And so it is—

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