The fire rose without asking—
not loud, not reckless,
not begging the room to notice.
It rose the way truth does
when it’s done negotiating.
This is tantric fire.
Disciplined. Devotional.
It doesn’t scorch what isn’t ready—
It clarifies.
It hums instead of screams.
It knows exactly where it’s going.
Damballa watches, unbothered,
coiled in patience,
teaching the long arc of becoming.
He does not rush me.
He never has.
La Sirèn smiles from the deep—
salt on her lips, secrets in her eyes.
She knows fire and water
are not enemies.
She knows how to burn
without losing softness.
She taught me that.
And the ancestors—
Oh, they’re amused.
Not shocked. Not surprised.
Just nodding like,
Yes. There she is.
They always knew
I’d stop apologizing for my heat.
This fire doesn’t chase approval.
It doesn’t flare for claps.
It warms what belongs
and leaves the rest untouched.
It burns bridges only long enough
for me to see them clearly—
Then let’s them fall
without drama,
without speeches,
without looking back.
Once, I mistook restraint for holiness.
I mistook silence for grace.
I mistook shrinking for love.
Now desire and discipline
walk hand in hand.
Pleasure has purpose.
Focus has teeth.
Stillness has authority.
This fire is elegant.
It has manners.
It also has boundaries.
I stand in it—
poised, grounded,
with just enough sass
to remind the universe
I am enjoying this.
The fire is here.
It is sacred.
It is intentional.
It is mine.
And when it rises,
the ancestors don’t panic.
They smile–
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