The passage into womanhood is not a climb to a summit but a descent to the depths.
She sinks into the dark soil of what was cast off: the hunger, the weight, the pull of something vast and unspeakable.
The feminine presses itself into the earth, into the hollows of what it once denied.
Desire is not a wound. Power is not a sharp edge. To descend is to root.
To sit heavy and whole in the deep and alive, drawing greatness toward you as the sun pulls the tides.