She wakes before the sun remembers itself,
before gold spills across the quiet sky.
There, in the hush of dawn, she breathes—
steady, fierce, whole.
Some days are battlefields,
where shadows press hard against her skin,
where pain bends but does not break her.
Still she rises.
She carries light in her hands,
in her laughter, in the way she walks
through storms as if her soul were made of fireflies.
She is luminous.
Like a butterfly wreathed in morning mist,
she moves with grace, with defiance,
with a softness that holds the weight of iron.
She is beautiful.
She is her name, her dreams, her laughter—
never just the fight, never just the scars.
She is, simply, her.
©SDaniels
