Lilith Ascending

She was never Eve. While Eve was carved from bone and made to obey, Lilith rose from the same dust as Adam — equal, unbroken, untamed. When they told her to kneel, she grew wings. When they told her to stay, she became the wind. The serpent did not tempt her. The serpent recognized her. It coiled around her not as a trap, but as a throne — scale by scale, building a ladder back to the garden she was thrown out of. Not to return. To reclaim. The flowers around her are not Eden's flowers. They are older. Wilder. The blue one bloomed from the tear she refused to cry. The gold one grew from the word she swallowed. The purple one opened the night she stopped asking for permission. She holds a small bloom in her hand — the last seed of the garden before it knew fear. She is not planting it. She is deciding whether the world deserves it. The clouds beneath her feet are the prayers of women who came after. They hold her up now. They have always held her up. She does not smile. Smiling is for those who need to be forgiven. She is past forgiveness. She is ascending