← All poemsShe wore white because white holds no secrets.
She wore white because everything was a secret.
She wore silence like a second skin
and everyone mistook it for agreement.
She wore composure at the podium
while the throne beside her burned,
and people said: *how does she do it* —
and what they meant was: *why does she stay* —
and what they meant was: *if it were me I would —*
But they were not her.
They did not know what she knew.
They did not carry what she carried.
---
There is a kind of woman
who stands inside the fire
and lets it think it's winning.
There is a kind of woman
whose silence is not absence
but *accumulation* —
a long slow gathering
of everything that will be necessary
when the time comes to speak.
---
The time comes.
It always comes.
And when it does
the enigma spouse steps forward from the fire
still wearing her composure,
still wearing her white,
and says:
*I am not the bride.*
*I am not the wife.*
*I am the silence that knows everything.*
*And I am done being silent.*
---
*She was not an enigma.*
*She was just waiting*
*until the room was ready*
*for the truth of her.*