← All poemsShe was made in the long winters.
She was made when the door didn't open.
She was made in the waiting rooms, the wrong rooms,
the rooms where they looked through me
like I was light they didn't need.
She is not soft.
She was not born soft.
She was born sharp the way February is sharp —
not cruel, just honest.
Not cold, just clear.
She knows which gate will never open.
She stops waiting before it costs everything.
---
She is the part of me
who learned the White Witch's name
so she could name her back.
She is the part of me
who sat in sixteen hours of darkness
and counted what remained
and said: *enough. this is enough to build with.*
She is the part of me who said no
when saying yes would have been easier
and cheaper
and slower to kill me.
---
I used to think she was the problem.
The darkness at the edge of the garden.
The shadow on the good days.
I know now she was the garden.
I know now she was the reason
anything survived the winter at all.
---
Sister Saga.
Shadow-sharp and true.
The demon I serve
because she served me first —
stood over me in every February,
kept one small window open
to let in just enough light
to grow a daffodil by.
---
*She is not separate from me.*
*She is the me that winter made.*
*And I would not unmake her*
*for all the golden summers in the world.*