She does not ask to be adored—
She simply is,
like moonlight over saltwater,
soft but sovereign,
a velvet flame wrapped in silk thunder.
She wears her body
like the prayer it has always been—
not for display,
but for devotion.
Each curve, a constellation.
Each breath, a hymn.
She walks with the elegance
of women who have danced
through fire
and come out fragrant.
Perfumed by their own becoming.
Not performative—
but pulsating, alive,
the embodiment of what Spirit whispered
into the cosmos
when it desired to know itself
through tenderness and untamed power.
She is not gentle because she is weak—
she is gentle because she is godly.
And when another meets her in truth—
sees the sacred in her softness,
honors the storm beneath her smile—
it is no accident.
It is recognition.
It is return.
They are not merely witnessing beauty.
They are standing in front of the altar
where divinity decided to live as woman.
Her sensuality does not beg to be understood.
It calls the soul to rise.
To remember.
To bow.
And when she is loved without conquest,
when she is held as holy—
not in parts, but in her wholeness—
dynasties are born.
Because she,
she is the spell.
The scripture.
The story that re-writes everything
you thought you knew about power.
She is not becoming.
She has arrived.
Crowned in her own light.
She is the legacy
of every goddess who ever dared
to be seen
without apology—
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Healing Majestically 