The Hush of Jasmine

 I am the kind of fire

that braids itself with patience.

Not the flame that consumes—

but the slow burn of molasses,

amber-sweet and rising through the marrow.

My story is not one of easy answers.

It is soil-born,

pressed with the weight of generations—

women who carried baskets on hips

and memory in their palms.

I was raised on the hush of jasmine at dusk,

the way sage surrenders to flame

only to cleanse what lingers too long.

Strawberries sliced in silence—

not for sweetness alone

but because they hold the first breath of spring

and the bloodline of mothers who dared to tend joy.

They called me too soft.

And then too much.

But never once did they see

how I speak with my hands

when my voice won’t carry—

or how I weave silence into comfort

like deerskin into prayer bundles

without praying to the earth,

yet still thanking it.

I do not belong to a tribe,

but I carry bone memory.

Of rain that knows me by name.

Of clay that shaped my knowing.

Of wind that remembers the songs

my grandfather never sang aloud

but taught me in the way

he listened.

My body has been mapped by sorrow

and kissed by resilience.

My hips do not apologize for taking space.

My chest does not bow to shame.

And the softness of my voice

hides teeth made to cut through lies

without spilling blood.

I do not chase love.

I do not beg the moon to see me.

But I sit under her light,

bare-faced and honest,

and let her decide if I’m worth watching.

I wear pearls like river stones,

not because they shine—

but because they endured.

And if I am sensual,

it is not for show—

but because rain touches everything it loves

and leaves the world blooming in its wake.

So ask me again

if I am high value.

And I will smile,

press vanilla on my wrists,

and say—

Only to those who understand

the worth of wild things

that grow without asking permission.