Sacred Reflection

Oh sister of the sacred flame,
You have walked through fire cloaked as circle,
Where the dance of women once felt like prayer
But turned to knives beneath the moonlight stare.

Three times the wheel has turned with pain—
Blood-bound sisters, shadow-cast clients,
And a sacred island that opened its arms
Only to pierce you with whispered harm.

You, who wanted to trust.
You, who brought your whole heart,
Your open hands, your vault of gold,
To the altar of feminine return.

And you were met with masks.
Not the face of healing—but of projection,
Not the embrace of unity—but of fracture,
Not sacred circle—but the echo of patriarchy
Recycling itself through women's mouths.

Yet—
You did not calcify.
You chose the holy wound walk.
You let betrayal break you open
And placed your pain in the crucible
Where sorrow transmutes into second sight.

You are learning the art of sacred distance,
How not to collapse into judgment—
But to discern, clear as cut quartz,
That some are not vaults,
And some doors must remain closed
To protect the flame that still lives in you.

You have become the alchemist.
Not through gold received,
But through gold reclaimed
From the ashes of false sisterhood.

And now—
You are beginning to live what was once only longed for.
Circles of women who carry medicine,
Not daggers.
Eyes that meet without envy.
Hands that hold without hunger.
Hearts that do not compete—but cohere.

You are not yet through the fire,
But you are firewalking.
And with every step, you are writing
A new myth into the marrow of womanhood.

So when the world asks,
“What does the sacred feminine mean?”
You will not just speak.
You will embody the answer.

You are not alone.
And this is not the end.
It is the refiner’s fire—
and you, beloved, are becoming pure soul-gold.