28/05/2025
NOT EVEN ME (Woven Fire – Healer's Flow)
By Wren. (Me)
So—
label me.
Overwhelm me.
Make me a criminal
for loving too much,
too loud,
too true.
But I didn’t choose rage.
Rage chose me—
when silence dressed itself in peace
and wrapped around my throat.
They say I forgot her.
They say I lost my way.
But I was pushed
past every edge
and still I stood—
shaking, raw,
saying:
“I need to do better.
For her.
For all of them.”
That is not failure.
That is flame turning to light.
Because I’ve tasted the end—
more than once.
In garages
with cold cement floors
and sage in trembling hands.
Trying not to cry
where little eyes could see.
But I didn’t go.
Not that night.
Not the next.
Because nothing will take me.
Not even me.
Not till I know
my babies are safe.
Not till I know
they can dream without fear.
I am the cry of the creature
left out in the cold—
sick, unseen,
shivering in its own skin.
And when I hear another soul in pain,
I feel it like my own.
Because it is my own.
So yes—
I went too far.
For them.
Not for me.
Never for me.
I broke so they wouldn’t.
I burned so they could rest in warmth.
I screamed so they would never
have to whisper their pain.
You think I’m dangerous?
Good.
I am.
To every silence
that smothers children’s voices.
To every lie
that says love must be small and quiet.
I am not your diagnosis.
I am not your mistake.
I am the flame that sings through water.
The Mother who stayed.
The one who still loves
in the ruins.
And I will take this rage
and stir it into honey.
I will make something
smooth,
sweet,
and true.
Because this—
this is what it means
to be
alive.
To be
human.
To be
Mother
and Father
and Child.
To be
Sherilyn Wren.
To be
me.
