Chandelier from the Sun

I learned to pamper myself
with divine precision.

Not loudly.
Not to be seen.
But with the quiet authority
of a woman who finally understood
that neglect was never humility.

I light the candle.
I pour the tea.
I changed the sheets.
I answer my body
before it has to beg.

I no longer wait
for love to arrive,
holding instructions
I should have given myself.

I study my own softness.
I honor my own pace.
I speak to myself
as if God is listening,
because God is.

There is a holy sensibility
in knowing what restores you.

A bath before the ache becomes a sermon.
A meal before hunger turns sharp.
A boundary before resentment gets dressed.
A nap without explanation.
A mirror without war.

This is self-love:
not a slogan,
not a pose,
not a silk robe pretending
The soul is not tired.

It is the discipline
of choosing tenderness
before the world assigns you damage.

It is the nerve
to say,
I am worth the good towel,
the fresh flowers,
the honest prayer,
the clean exit,
a better life.

I have stopped calling survival
my personality.

Now I call myself back
with lavender hands
and a spine of gold.

Now I bless the woman
who stayed.

Now I feed the woman
who carried me.

Now I adorn the woman
who rose without applause
and still had the decency
to become radiant.

Let love come.
Let it be generous.
Let it have manners.

But until then,
I will not sit in the dark
waiting to be chosen.

I am already lit.

A chandelier from the sun,
polished by grief,
hung in the house
of my own becoming,

glittering,

not because I was saved,

But because I remembered
I was scared.

Sherley Delia